


Steps

by Kalimyre



Series: Little Help [2]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Fingerfucking, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Rimming, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalimyre/pseuds/Kalimyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "A Little Help From My Friends."  There are still a lot of things Martin has never tried.  Arthur turns out to be a surprisingly good teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You're A Natural

“Ready to try something new?”

Martin cast a wary glance at Arthur.  They were in the kitchen of the house he shared with five students, and Arthur was poking about in the cupboards.  Making tea, theoretically, but one never knew.  “What do you mean?”

“You know.”  Arthur gave him a conspiratorial grin.  “Something new.  I mean, the intercrural is brilliant of course, but there are so many other things to try.”

“You, you…”  Martin ducked his head, reminding himself again that they were alone in the house.  He already felt strange enough inviting Arthur over to his grotty little flat with decidedly impure intentions; he didn’t need an audience.  “What did you call it?”

“Intercrural,” Arthur repeated.  “What we did in the hotel in Venice?  I was behind you, and I put my—”

“Yes, right, I remember,” Martin said.  Heat rose in his cheeks and his stomach fluttered; he couldn’t decide if it was nerves or excitement.  Most likely both.  “I just didn’t realise you’d use the, ah… technical term.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“No reason,” Martin murmured faintly.  “So you want to, um, you’re…”  He took a deep breath.  His hands knotted together on the table, fingertips turning white with pressure.

“Hey, don’t,” Arthur said.  He sat down and covered Martin’s hands with one of his.  He had broad, squarish hands with blocky fingers; clumsy, but warm.  And, as Martin recalled, he could be very good with them indeed. 

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t get that look,” Arthur replied.  “We’re going slow, remember?  You liked the first bit, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Martin admitted.  He flicked a curious look up through his eyelashes.  “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, tell me what you’ve done already,” Arthur said.  “So I know where to start.”

“Um,” Martin said.  “I told you before, I’m… well, I _was_ a virgin.  Until Venice, anyway.”

Arthur smiled.  His thumb ran back and forth over Martin’s palm.  “So nothing at all?  Not even kissing?  Maybe using your hands, or having someone use their hands on you?”

Martin’s flush deepened; he still couldn’t get used to the way Arthur talked about sex, without hesitation or subtlety.  “There was one time,” he started.  He watched their hands as he spoke; it was easier if he didn’t have to meet Arthur’s eyes.  “At university, with another student.  He was drunk and I was, ah, pretty nervous.  Really nervous.  He put his hands on my… me, through my trousers, and I tried to do the same, but he’d had too much to drink and couldn’t… and I got, I don’t know.  Discouraged, I guess.  I would have kept trying, but he laughed, and maybe he wasn’t even laughing at me.  Maybe it was just the way random nonsense things seem funny and you laugh when you’re drunk.  But it was enough to make me leave.”

“So nobody came?”

Martin blinked, startled by the question.  “Ah, no,” he said.  “I was pretty close for a little while… sort of a hair trigger back then.  But no.”

Arthur nodded.  “Right.  What about oral?”

“ _Arthur!”_

“What?”  Arthur grinned at him; it was a teasing expression, but one that invited him to join in on the joke.  “It’s not a dirty word, Skip.”

“No, I suppose not, but you don’t just _ask_ something like that.”

“Sure I do,” Arthur replied.  “I mean, not in front of anyone else, because it’s private, but I can ask you when we’re alone.  We’re together now.  That sort of thing is allowed.”

“Oh,” Martin said.  “Is it?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied with a solemn nod.  “It’s in the rules.”

Martin suspected this was more of Arthur’s gentle teasing, but it was certainly better than being mocked for being uptight or prissy.  And, fair enough, it was a reasonable question.  “Right,” he said.  “Okay.  Then no, none of that.  I’ve been asked a couple times, if I would, um… apparently I have a nice mouth.  Or so I’m told.”

“You do,” Arthur said.  Martin met his eyes; Arthur’s steady gaze held a warm, speculative glint. 

“Well,” Martin said.  “Thanks?  But I always said no.”

“Why?  You don’t like the idea of it?” Arthur asked.  “It’s okay if you don’t.  We can do other things.”

“No, it’s not that,” Martin said.  “Actually, the idea of it is…”  He trailed off, considering.  An image rose in his mind, vivid and detailed: Arthur on his knees, grinning up at him, licking his lips in a show of eagerness.  Then leaning forward, lapping at his tip, closing his eyes and moaning at the taste.  That grin stretching, opening, swallowing him up in soft heat…

“Skip?”

“Hmm?”  Martin cleared his throat.  Arthur was giving him that look again—smug, proprietary, and _knowing._

“You want to,” Arthur said.

It wasn’t a question, but Martin nodded.  “Yes.  But I didn’t want to be horrible at it, and since I’ve never been… on the receiving end, as it were, I had no idea how it was supposed to go.”

“Righto,” Arthur said briskly.  “We’ll put that on the list, then.”

“There’s a list?”  And oh dear, his voice might have squeaked a little just then.

“A _long_ list.”  Arthur turned his hands over and stroked the inside of Martin’s wrist.  Then he brought the hand up to his lips, and kissed the same place, leaving a point of damp warmth to tingle in the cool air.  Martin watched him, eyes growing wide and round.  How was it possible that a tiny, single touch could race through him and leave him half-hard in his trousers?

Then again, maybe it was the promise of more written clearly on Arthur’s face.  Martin swallowed.  “What, ah, what else is on the list?”

“It’s a surprise,” Arthur said.  “We’ll just go one step at a time.”

“What is step one?”

“Well, that was Venice,” Arthur said.

“Can we try step two?”

A slow smile spread across Arthur’s face.  It was not his usual bright, cheery grin but it still looked at home there.  Martin was reminded of the time Arthur had assured him he was ‘quite enigmatic.’  He’d dismissed it when he’d heard it, but now, he was beginning to see there was quite a lot more to Arthur than the simple, happy surface.

“Come on,” Arthur said, and rose, pulling Martin to his feet. 

Martin was grateful for that strong hand curled around his as they went up the stairs.  It felt essential, like a tether to something safe and familiar as he ventured into the unknown.  Silly, of course; he was no longer, as Douglas put it, _virgo intacta,_ and this was Arthur.  Kind, gentle Arthur, who had already shown him patience and generosity.  There was no reason to be nervous.

Still, by the time the door to his room was closed and locked behind them, his heart was in his throat and his stomach was sudsing like a washing machine.

Arthur turned to him, and a small frown line appeared between his eyebrows; an expression which looked totally foreign to his face.  “Hush,” he said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re worrying so loud I can hear it,” Arthur replied.  “Why?”

“I… I don’t… no reason.  I’m not.  It’s fine,” Martin insisted. When Arthur looked unconvinced, he lurched forward, flung his arms around Arthur’s neck, and kissed him. 

“Shh,” Arthur murmured between kisses.  He put his hands on Martin’s waist and held him steady.  Martin wasn’t sure how it happened, but without any seeming movement or change, suddenly he wasn’t kissing Arthur anymore.  Now, Arthur was kissing _him._ It felt like a dance, slow and deliberate; the careful cadence of a waltz.  There was space between them and that felt deliberate as well.  His hands were linked at the nape of Arthur’s neck, and Arthur’s wide palms rested on his sides, just over his hips, but other than that they touched only at the lips. 

Martin had closed his eyes automatically when he leaned in for a kiss; now he opened them.  Arthur was watching him.  This close, the rich dark brown of his eyes was striking.  Arthur angled his head back and kissed the corners of Martin’s mouth.  Then the dip in the centre of his upper lip, and then the plump curve of the bottom lip.  Now his cheeks, up over the arch of each cheekbone, and then the tip of his nose.  Finally, Arthur pressed a warm, close-mouthed kiss to his forehead.  Martin sagged forward and Arthur caught him, one hand in his hair, cradling his head.  He rested against Arthur’s shoulder and let out a long breath.

“Don’t rush,” Arthur said quietly.  “You don’t have to race ahead like you’re trying to get through it before you lose your nerve.”

Martin winced; that was embarrassingly accurate.  “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Arthur replied.  “Let’s start with what you know.”  He enfolded Martin, his arms going snug around Martin’s back, one hand still stroking through his hair.  They rocked back and forth lazily.  Martin tucked his face into the hollow of Arthur’s neck and breathed.  He tugged at the hem of Arthur’s shirt and slipped his fingers beneath, gathering up the sensation of his smooth, warm skin.  Arthur was just a little taller than him, but much broader, with wide shoulders; it made Martin feel small, and he found there was something he liked in the feeling.

“I’m going to try something,” Arthur said.  “I want you to trust me.  Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Martin said, speaking before he could think about it.

“Good.  Keep your eyes closed, and relax.  Hands at your sides.  All you need to do is stand there.”

“Okay.”  Martin stood still obediently, swaying a little.  Arthur’s hand on his shoulder was reassuring; he would have felt unmoored without it.  It also helped to be given specific directions.  The fear of doing something wrong or not being good enough melted away.

He was aware of Arthur circling him, one hand on him at all times, fingertips trailing over the back of his shoulders and around to the other side.  Arthur stepped close; he could feel the warmth radiating from him.  Deft hands released the buttons on his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders.  It slid to the floor in a whisper of fabric.  Cool air drifted over his skin. 

Arthur held him again, his shirt an unfamiliar texture against Martin’s bare chest.  He stroked Martin’s back in overlapping waves, one hand sliding from nape to waist and then the other.  He cupped his hands under Martin’s shoulder blades and rubbed little circles with his thumbs.  It was strange; Martin was half-dressed while Arthur still wore all his clothes, and he had his eyes closed, so he ought to feel vulnerable, helpless, and exposed.  He _did_ feel all those things but it was an odd, peaceful sensation.  He felt like a small boat bobbing on a large, placid lake; adrift, but calm.

“Good,” Arthur murmured in his ear.  “You’re doing really well.”

Martin smiled lazily and turned his head, brushing a kiss to Arthur’s jaw.  Arthur made a soft, pleased hum.  His hands braced Martin’s shoulders and steered him, walking him backward.  Although they were in his own familiar little flat, Martin found that with his eyes closed he quickly lost his sense of position.  He had no idea what he was backing into.  His hands came up to grip Arthur’s wrists.

Arthur stopped walking.  “Easy now,” he said.  “I’m going to put you on the futon, that’s all.  I won’t run you into anything.  Hands down, come on.”

Martin obeyed, calm returning.  He felt the soft edge of the futon mattress bump the backs of his knees, and he folded down on it, Arthur steering him into place.  His sheets smelled like home, a complex mix of his shampoo, laundry soap, and the faint mustiness that always stole into the attic when it rained.  He sprawled out, soothed by the familiarity of it.

“That’s right,” Arthur said.  “Just lie still.”  He knelt on the bed (Martin could feel the firm pressure of his knee next to his thigh) and his hands went to the waist of Martin’s trousers.

“Um,” Martin said, hands twitching.  He kept them down with effort.

“Shh,” Arthur said.  “I’m just going to pull them off.”

“Aren’t you getting undressed too?”

“I will,” Arthur promised.  “But not yet.”

Martin nodded.  Eyes still closed, he lifted his hips when Arthur nudged at them.  His trousers slid down to his ankles, leaving him in pants.  He toed out of his shoes (“Forgot them _again,”_ Arthur muttered) and Arthur shoved it all off onto the floor.  There was a rustling sound, and then the pressure of Arthur’s knee vanished and suddenly it was only him, lying there in his shabby flat, mostly naked and far too exposed.

Martin opened his eyes, reaching one hand out for the last place Arthur was.  “Arthur?”

He was there, perched on the edge of the futon, untying his own shoes.  “Darn things,” Arthur said.  “Wanted to get them out of the way.”

“I couldn’t feel you,” Martin said.  His voice sounded hollow and plaintive in his own ears.

Arthur abandoned the shoes.  He stretched out at Martin’s side and wrapped around him, one leg going over his thighs and both arms snaking around his waist.  “Right, sorry, sorry,” he said. 

“It’s fine,” Martin said, but his fists curled in Arthur’s shirt and he turned, pressing close.  There was a strange sinking sensation in the centre of his chest, as if he’d just fallen from a great height.  It made him think of hitting a pocket of cold air when you’ve been flying on thermals and losing fifty feet of altitude in a second.

“It’s really not,” Arthur said.  “I _am_ sorry, Skip, I mean it.  I didn’t realise you’d take to it so fast.”

“Take to what?”

There was a pause; Arthur stroked his hair absently.  Martin waited.  He was beginning to feel calm and quiet in his head again.  Arthur’s steady presence helped tremendously.  “Some people like to not be in charge,” Arthur said; he spoke like he was feeling his way through a dark room, slow and wary of stumbling over something.  “I dated a girl once who liked to be tied up and she explained it to me.  I didn’t understand it completely but I tried anyway because it made her feel really good.  Really safe and happy.  She said I was a natural at doing the in-charge part and ever since then I try it because it felt brilliant to me, too.  Sort of like I was a superhero.”

“Oh,” Martin said softly.  “I’m not sure about the tying up.”  But there was a certain appeal to the idea.

“No, I didn’t mean that for you,” Arthur said, shaking his head.  “That’s not a step two thing.  But I like being in charge.  I never get to be in charge; Mum tells me what to do, or you and Douglas tell me what to do, or the passengers do.  After a while, I start to feel… I don’t know.  Invisible.  So I really liked it with Lissy—she’s the one who liked tying up—because I got to be the boss.  I try it with everyone I’m with and some people like it, some don’t.  You’re one of the people who likes it.  A natural, like me.”

“For the… not-in-charge side of things,” Martin said.  “But that doesn’t make any sense.  I’m the Captain.”

“That’s _why_ it makes sense,” Arthur replied.  “You always have to be in control.  You’re responsible for the plane, you’re responsible for your job with the van—you always make all the decisions.  Nobody takes care of you.  So this is like a holiday from all that.  You see?”

Martin frowned.  _Nobody takes care of you._ He huddled closer to Arthur’s side.  “I guess so,” he said slowly.  “But this is all… I mean, look, three days ago I’d never done _anything._ Nothing at all.  And now you’re talking about something involving tying up and, and… probably weird clubs or something and, I don’t know, like handcuffs or, or…”

“No, Skip, shhh, nothing like that,” Arthur said.  He was grinning; Martin could feel the curve of his mouth against his temple.  “I’ve tried a few of those things but they’re not really for me.  The tying up was more for Lissy than me, anyway.  She liked it.  I just liked taking care of her.  And I like taking care of you.  That’s all.”

Martin wasn’t sure what to say to that.  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  The steady stroke of Arthur’s fingertips through his hair was hypnotic.  “So, um… earlier, when you were taking your shoes off…”

“Right, sorry,” Arthur said.  “I mean, not about the shoes, but for stopping in the middle.  Lissy told me that once you get going, stopping in the middle is like when you go to sit down and somebody takes your chair away and you fall instead of sitting.”

“Yes, exactly,” Martin agreed, nodding. 

“But you liked it before that, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Martin murmured.  “It was nice.”

“Okay.”  Arthur leaned back, tilted his chin up with a hand under his jaw, and kissed him.  When he spoke, his voice had changed again; Martin was already starting to think of it as Arthur’s sex voice.  Something low, smooth, and confident.  “Keep your eyes closed.  I want you to show me what you like.  Show me how you like to be touched.”

“What do you mean?”

“Touch yourself the way you would do if you were alone.”

Martin stiffened.  “You want to watch me do… _that?”_

“Yes,” Arthur said simply.  “And then I’ll show you what I like.  You’re going to feel more relaxed if you know what to do.”

Martin touched a hesitant hand to his belly, fingertips cold against his skin.  “I’m not sure…”

“Shh.”  Arthur covered Martin’s hand with his own.  He pressed soft kisses along the line of Martin’s throat, and murmured in his ear.  “Start slow.  Stop worrying about how you look; you look amazing.  Just show me.”

Martin breathed out and tried to find that drifting calm again.  It came surprisingly easy.  He sank into it, muscles relaxing.  His favourite fantasies usually involved being held close, warm arms around him and soft words whispered into his skin.  Arthur was already there and it was a small step to let the line between imagination and reality blur. 

He bent his knees, feet planted on the bed, and let his thighs fall open.  He trailed his fingers up the inside of each thigh, sensitizing the skin.  He stroked his other hand over his chest, then down, low on his belly, sifting through the fine ginger curls.  Then up, along the centre of his chest and over the ridge of his collarbone, then up his throat.  His knuckles bumped against Arthur’s chin, nestled close to his shoulder, and Arthur kissed them.

“Perfect,” Arthur said.  He dropped more kisses on Martin’s shoulder and cheek.  “Beautiful.”

Martin squirmed a little, unaccustomed to the praise, but he couldn’t suppress a startled smile.  He tilted his head in invitation and Arthur nibbled on his neck.  Martin dipped his fingers beneath the waistband of his pants.  He teased, tracing the angle of each hip and the tender patch of skin high up on his inner thighs. 

With one more kiss to the edge of his ear, Arthur pulled back to watch.  One hand remained on Martin’s chest, keeping him steady.  He could feel the warm weight of it.  He pulled his hand out of his pants and rubbed himself through them, arching his back at the pressure.  Arousal had crept in sneakily, like the way sunlight seemed to soak into him on a summer day.  Now it thrummed hot in his belly, coalescing there and radiating up his chest in a pink flush.

He ran his knuckles over the firm shape of his cock through his pants, and then rubbed again with the edges of his fingernails.  The cotton blunted the touch just enough, leaving a sharp sizzle of feeling but no pain.  He pressed at the head, feeling the sticky warmth of pre-come leaving little dabs of moisture on the inside of his pants.  He rubbed there, coaxing more out, and bit his lip.

“Good,” Arthur murmured.  “Good, yes, brilliant.  Keep going.”

There was something about it—the encouragement, the approval, the greedy _want_ he could hear in Arthur’s voice—and his hips jerked, pressing his cock harder into his hand.  Martin moaned and twisted, then shoved the pants down around his thighs.  His cock slapped against his belly and he curled his palm around it.  He rubbed with his thumb over the head in little circles and worked the foreskin up and down.  He was breathing hard, sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip and slipping down the side of his chest in errant drops. 

It was going to be fast; he hadn’t come since Venice and was too worked up to wait.  Too much time spent thinking and wondering and reveling in the remembered sensations.  He settled into a steady, familiar rhythm, twisting on the upstroke and cupping his balls in his other hand.  He thought of how he must look, gasping for breath and stretched bare on the bed, pants around his thighs, both hands working between his legs.  How wanton and exposed he must appear to Arthur, watching him.  Bottom lip slick and puffy from biting, mouth open as he panted, abdominal muscles quivering with tension, body arched and hips lifting from the bed on each stroke.  Instead of making him want to curl and cover himself, the thought only raced him closer to the finish.

“Mmmm,” he said, the word coming out as a high-pitched whine from the back of his throat.  “Oh, oh, Arthur, close…”

“Yes,” Arthur purred, right in his ear.  “Gorgeous, I knew you’d be amazing.  Look at you.”

That was it, there, just a few more strokes and he’d tip over the edge.  A little more, press just below the head, his balls drawing up tight against the base of his cock and pleasure focusing in a blinding point right at the tip.  Almost, almost…

And then Arthur’s fingers, firm around his wrist, drawing his hand away.  Martin groaned a wordless protest and his hips jerked, thrusting up against nothing.  “What, what, no, I need,” he mumbled.  He tried bringing his left hand up, but Arthur caught that one too, startlingly strong. 

“I’m going to finish for you,” Arthur promised.  “Now that I know what you like.”

“Yes, okay, yes,” Martin babbled.  _“Please.”_

Arthur pushed his hands down at his sides.  “Leave them there,” he said sternly. 

Martin nodded and gripped a fistful of the duvet in each hand to keep them in place.  His cock throbbed and ached, hard against his belly and purplish at the crown.  Arthur nudged his thighs a little wider and Martin let them splay, his hips lifting hopefully.  “Now you watch,” Arthur said.  “Watch me.”

Martin opened his eyes and focused with effort; his vision blurred and swam.  Arthur leaned over him with a predatory smile.  His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and he’d opened his shirt halfway down his chest.  Colour was high in his cheeks and he licked his lips. 

“Please,” Martin said again.  “Yes, please, yes.”

Arthur started on his thighs, tracing the tingling skin.  He added a little scrape with his nails, stinging lines from Martin’s knee to his groin.  Martin moaned and squirmed.  His toes curled and he clutched harder at the duvet.  Arthur rolled his balls with the pads of his fingers, the touch impossibly gentle, and Martin shuddered.  Then up, fingers drawing a path from the jut of one hip across his belly to the other, teasingly close to his cock without touching.

“Arthur,” Martin ground out through gritted teeth.  _“Hurry.”_

“Hush,” Arthur said, implacable.  “I’ll go as fast as I go.  You’ll like it.”

Martin made a pleading sound and leaned toward Arthur’s hand.  Arthur smiled, slow and smug.  “Watch,” he said again.  Then, finally, he wrapped his hand around Martin’s cock.

Just the sight of it, that broad and familiar hand, tan against his own paler skin, was at once shocking and tantalizing.  Martin pushed up into the touch, thrusting into the loose circle of Arthur’s fingers.  They grew slippery fast and Martin moaned in relief.  “More,” he said, “oh please, oh that’s good, more.”

“Like this,” Arthur said, and it was an order, not a question.  He mimicked Martin’s own sliding stroke, complete with the twist at the end, but he added a sly rub of his thumb over that sensitive spot below the head.  The touch came randomly in darting flickers of sensation and Martin tossed his head on the pillow.  Arthur’s other hand pinned his hips down, leaving him still and helpless.  Martin swallowed hard, jaw clenched tight, and held his breath to keep quiet.

“Don’t do that,” Arthur said sharply.  “Let me hear you.  I love the sounds you make.”

That startled a gasp out of him, and once he started, it was easy to keep going.  He whimpered and tugged fretfully at the duvet.  He pedaled his feet against the bed.  He twisted, trying to thrust into Arthur’s hand, but he couldn’t move and it was delicious torture.  “Oh god, Arthur, please,” he blurted.  “I can’t, I can’t…”

“You can,” Arthur replied.  “You’re so good at this.  So good, you’re learning so fast and you’re _beautiful_ this way.”

The words rolled over him, reaching something knotted in his chest and unraveling it in a hot rush.  “Arthur,” he said, no longer sure what he was asking for.

“Beautiful,” Arthur repeated in a low, reverent whisper.  Then, mercifully, his hand tightened and stroked with purpose.  Martin thrashed, grateful for Arthur’s hand on his hip, holding him down.  It was a relief to not have to control himself, to know that Arthur was in charge and would do it for him.  He relaxed and gave himself over to the feeling, drowning in pleasure.

Martin babbled something—he wasn’t sure what but he caught ‘ _please’_ and ‘ _yes’_ and ‘ _oh god oh god Arthur yes_ ’ in there and he’d probably be embarrassed about that later but he just couldn’t right now.  Coming seemed to last forever, stretching him thin over that teetering point until he was wrung out and dizzy.  He sprawled, languid and loose-limbed, when it was finally over.  Before he could come down, Arthur had him gathered up in an embrace.

“So good,” Arthur mumbled, lips pressed against his temple.  “So good, you don’t even know, I’m going to make you come like that in ways you haven’t even thought of.”

Martin shivered, an aftershock rolling through him.  “Arthur,” he said softly.  “I… thank you.  I don’t know what to say.”

Arthur kissed him, sweet and slow.  Martin could feel him hard against his hip, but his touch was unhurried.  “You don’t need to say anything,” Arthur said.  He took Martin’s wrist and guided his hand down, pressing it against his cock through his trousers.  “Just show me.”

Martin nodded.  His fingers curled, uncertain.  “Don’t worry,” Arthur said.  “I’ll tell you exactly what I like.  I’ll let you watch first.  Do you want to see?”

“Yes,” Martin said.  “Yes, I want to see.”


	2. After

“Hello, Martin.”

“Hello,” Martin replied, glancing up from his flight plan.  “Only twenty minutes late; that’s practically early, for you.  To what do we owe the honour?”

“I happen to like Luxembourg,” Douglas replied.  “And, as it happens, I was on time.  I’ve just been out preparing Gertie for the flight.”

“Really,” Martin said, cocking an eyebrow at him.  “ _You_ did that.”

“Well, when I say preparing, it was really more of a supervisory capacity.  Overseeing the cargo loading.”

“Ah,” Martin said.  “And what are we smuggling today?”

“Martin,” Douglas said, spreading his hands, “you wound me.  Nothing of the sort.  Simply a few gifts for my friend in Differdange.  I’m certain he’ll be very appreciative.”

“Mmm.”  Martin shrugged and entered the last line of his flight plan with a satisfied flourish of his pen.

“Really?” Douglas asked.  “Is that all I get?  No lecture on the extra weight throwing off your fuel calculations?  No moaning about how we’ll all go to some foreign prison when we are inevitably caught by Customs?”

“Yes, all right,” Martin said, flapping a hand at him.  “Won’t do any good, you’ve heard it enough times.  Besides, I’m curious about what you’ve brought.  It’s always something interesting.”

“I must say, you’re in remarkably good spirits for half seven on a grey and drizzly Wednesday.  And clearly feeling rather… _relaxed.”_

Martin glanced up sharply.  “What do you mean?”

“I’m commenting on your demeanour,” Douglas said innocently. 

Martin narrowed his eyes.  “Right.  Yes.”

“And while I was on the plane, I happened to notice that Arthur was in rather good spirits as well.  Humming something _almost_ recognizable.”

“Oh,” Martin said.  He hunched his shoulders and neatened a sheaf of papers on the desk, carefully lining up the edges. 

“Isn’t that a coincidence?  You and he both being in a good mood.”

“Arthur being cheerful isn’t unusual,” Martin replied.

“Cheerful, no.  _Glowing,_ on the other hand, is slightly less common.”

Martin rolled his eyes and huffed.  “If you’re trying to embarrass me, it won’t work.  We’re both adults and it’s none of your business.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you might be referring to,” Douglas said. 

“Nothing,” Martin said.  “Nothing.  Never mind.  I’ll start the pre-flight, shall I?”  He stood, ready to escape the porta-cabin, but then the door opened and Arthur and Carolyn blew in on a cold gust of damp air. 

“Morning, Skip!” Arthur said, beaming at him. 

Martin could feel Douglas looking at him.  Carolyn wasn’t looking, but he was sure she was listening, and not missing a thing.  He flushed, knowing it was baseless, knowing he had nothing to feel self-conscious about, but unable to help it.  He wasn’t sure if it was the sex, the submission, or the fact that he’d loved both things so much, but all at once he couldn’t face any of them.

“Morning, just off to do the walk round,” he muttered, and slipped away.  The sharp morning air slapped him in the face like a wet rag; a relief to his heated skin.  He hunched and scurried across the tarmac, hands shoved deep in his pockets.  Foolish.  Silly, and pointless, and, and… just _stupid,_ really.  Childish, even.  There was no call to react this way.  He was thirty-three years old.  Arthur was thirty.  They were grown men doing something that was, in actuality, not that strange.  Maybe a little outside the mainstream, but hardly rare.  So he liked it, what did it matter?  Consenting adults, privacy of their own homes, and so forth.  He didn’t have to justify it to anyone.

He scowled and turned his collar up against the wind as he began a slow, careful walk round.  It just didn’t make sense.  He’d been openly gay since his late teens.  He had no problem going to a gay club, or dating another man in public.  Not that he’d done much of either, but in theory, he was fine with it.  He really should have gotten past this little crisis years ago, when he’d first realised he was gay.

Martin paused, ducking under the wing to get out of the rain.  Maybe that was it—it had all been theoretical.  Up until that trip to Venice, it had never been _real._ Fantasy was safe.  Reality, with all its risks of something going horribly wrong, was a much more daunting concept.  Maybe liking it so much was frightening because it meant he had so much more to lose.

He examined that idea, turning it over in his head as he checked the landing gear.  Partly right, he thought.  Fear of loss was in there somewhere.  But why should that make him want to hide when Douglas and Carolyn saw the way Arthur looked at him?  There was nothing to be ashamed of.  Arthur was kind and handsome and goodhearted; anyone would be lucky to have him.  He should be glad.  He _was_ glad.  But the idea of being close to him—of maybe having Arthur touch or hold him where they could see…

He shook his head and scrubbed his hands over his face, making a small, anxious sound.  Just the thought of it made him squirm with some confusing mix of discomfort and apprehension.  But that didn’t make any _sense._ It was foolish, and stupid, and… and he was back where he’d started.  And how long would Arthur put up with that before he started feeling hurt by Martin’s avoidance?

Not long, he thought.  Nor should he have to. 

He sighed and trudged back toward the porta-cabin.  They had a layover in Differdange that night before taking a new load of cargo back; that meant a hotel.  Arthur would expect… well, something.  Martin did _want_ that something, that part was clear in his mind, but it wasn’t fair to Arthur, was it?  He’d be no better than that bounder Jeff, using him for the fantastic sex.  Arthur was not some dirty little secret.

He’d just have to get over it, he decided.  Just stop being so foolish, or at least do a better job of covering it up.

*

Differdange, with a population of just over ten thousand, was more of a town than a city.  It had a tiny airfield, a cluster of tiny hotels, and several large steel mills.  A low fog lay over everything like a soggy quilt and the view was uniformly grey.  Flying in over the clouds, the sky was a bright and endless blue but as soon as they went beneath, a shadow dropped over the world.  The sun was only visible as a pale white circle through the cloud cover. 

“Lovely,” Martin muttered, squinting through the rain.  “I can barely see the landing lights.”

“Want me to take it?” Douglas offered.

“Probably a good idea,” Martin agreed.  He switched control over to Douglas and took his hands off the yoke.  Douglas took his own smoothly, but he cast a startled look at Martin.

“Are you sure?”

“You offered,” Martin said.  “Besides, the rain is awful and the wind is gusting to forty.  It’s going to be slippery and touchy getting down.  Safest to have you take it.”

“All valid points,” Douglas said.  “And ones I was rather expecting I’d have to make as I argued with you for the landing.”

Martin slouched and said nothing.

“Are you all right?” Douglas asked.

“Yes.  Fine.”

“It’s just that you seemed rather chipper this morning, and now, suddenly…”

“I said I was fine,” Martin replied.  He stared straight ahead, watching rain spatter against the canopy in fat drops.

Douglas pursed his lips but said nothing, focusing on the landing.  The damp air and gusting wind drove rain at them from all directions, and the fog lying over the ground left the runway half-obscured.  Martin watched Douglas work, admitting (always in the privacy of his own thoughts, never out loud) that he truly was a skilled pilot.  They did slip a little, rubber meeting the rain-slick tarmac and skidding, but Douglas corrected easily. 

When they had come to a stop, Martin automatically began the post-landing checks.  When he looked at Douglas for a response, he found the other man staring at him, a thoughtful line between his eyebrows.  “What?” Martin asked.

“You were fine before,” Douglas said.

“And I’m fine now.  What are you—”

“I’m not talking about this morning.  I mean before, in Venice.  We talked on the flight back and you were fine.  You didn’t mind me knowing; in fact you even seemed eager to talk about it.  What’s changed?”

Martin froze.  “I… I don’t…”

“Yes, all right, I’m sure you’ve got a full sentence in there somewhere.”

“I don’t know,” Martin snapped.  “All right?  I don’t know.  I mean, I sort of know, but it doesn’t make sense, and it’s stupid, and I have to stop but I don’t know _how_ to stop and I’m going to ruin everything and, and… I was alone most of my life for a _reason,_ you know.  I’m not good at this.”

Douglas raised his eyebrows.  “Right.  Well.  It seems to me you have two choices here.  You can tell me about it, which will be awkward for both of us and, despite gaining you my marvellous advice, would probably not solve your problem because you wouldn’t take it.  Or—and this is the course I recommend—you could tell Arthur about it.”

“Arthur,” Martin repeated flatly.  “You think _Arthur_ is going to have the solution.”

“He is, as I believe I have said, surprisingly wise in some ways.”

Martin thought about it, worrying at his bottom lip.  “Yeah,” he said eventually.  “Maybe.”

*

Arthur knocked on his hotel room door barely ten minutes after they’d checked in.  He knew it was Arthur; he always added a ‘shave and a haircut’ rhythm to his knock.  Martin let him in and was nearly bowled over when Arthur wrapped him in a hug.

“Hi,” Arthur said brightly.  He squeezed tighter, backing them into the room, the door swinging shut behind him.  He pulled back long enough to give Martin a quick, exuberant kiss, and then tucked him back in against his chest.

Martin closed his eyes, sagging a little.  He let out a long breath and slid his arms around Arthur’s waist.  He nuzzled into the hollow of Arthur’s neck, breathing in his familiar scent.  They stood like that, swaying, like two people doing a slow and revolving dance to unheard music.  Eventually Arthur sighed happily and gave him another kiss, slower this time, lingering.

“What was that for?” Martin asked when he was done.

“You looked like you needed it.”

Martin nodded thoughtfully.  He _did_ feel better, that much was true; the tension in his neck and shoulders had eased and a kind of sleepy contentment filled his chest.  “Yes,” he said.  “Thank you.”

“Righto.”  Arthur took him by the hand and steered him toward the bed.  He scooted them both backward until he was leaning against the headboard and Martin was between his legs, back resting against his chest.  Arthur’s arms linked around his waist and his chin rested on Martin’s shoulder.  “So,” he said.  “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Martin blinked.  His first impulse was to say ‘ _nothing, it’s fine, it’s all fine,’_ but he didn’t think he could do it convincingly and found he didn’t particularly want to try.  Maybe because of the way Arthur had said it—not a question, but a command.

“I’m not sure,” he said.  He felt as if he was rummaging through a bag blindfolded, trying to find the right words and hoping he pulled good ones out.  “I feel… strange?  I guess?  About what we did.  I mean, I liked it, I really, really did.  But I don’t want anyone to know.  Not about you, it’s okay if they know about you.  Douglas and Carolyn already do.  But I don’t want them to know I… that I like…”

“I wasn’t going to tell them,” Arthur pointed out mildly.

“I know,” Martin replied.  “I do know that.  You wouldn’t.” 

Arthur nodded.  He stayed quiet, waiting, and Martin felt a sudden rush of gratitude for his kindness.  Had he really been worried about telling Arthur this?  Now _that_ was the most foolish thing of all.

“Could you tell?” Martin asked.  “Could you somehow see that I would… that I’d like it?  That I’d take to it, be a ‘natural’ at it?”

“No,” Arthur said.  “I didn’t even know, remember?  I didn’t realise until you got upset when I stopped.”

“Right,” Martin said.  “I guess I just thought they’d be able to tell, or something.  Or they’d be able to tell what we’d done in general.  I mean, I’m not ashamed of it or anything but it’s…”  And he couldn’t put it into words properly.  The image in his head was of a soap bubble, light and delicate and perfect, shimmering opalescent in the sun.  Something fragile and impermanent and so easily broken.  He felt like he wanted to cradle it in his hands, to hide it away somewhere safe and protected, until it grew stronger. 

“It’s ours,” Arthur said.  “Only ours.”

“Yes.  We’re not ready… _I’m_ not ready for… it’s all so new.”  Martin squeezed the hands linked around his waist; Arthur squeezed back, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. 

“Okay,” Arthur said.  “That’s fine.”

“Is it?  Because it doesn’t seem fair to you,” Martin replied.  “To expect you to, to hide or something, to pretend like we’re not…”

“What did you think I was going to do?” Arthur asked.

Well.  Martin frowned down at their joined hands.  What _had_ he thought Arthur was going to do?  Make him sit in his lap on the flight deck or give him orders in the porta-cabin?  Maybe just grab a proprietary handful of his arse as he walked through the cabin, in front of all the passengers?  It all seemed rather absurd. 

Yes, Arthur had been smug that morning in Venice, but he hadn’t really said anything, had he?  Just implied it.  And he’d gotten Martin breakfast, but that wasn’t anything unusual.  Arthur was always doing nice little things like that for him.  Which, now that he thought about it, made a lot of sense. 

“Sorry,” Martin said.  “I think I’m making far too much of this.”

“That’s normal,” Arthur said.

“Because I’m uptight, neurotic, and always in a pucker about something?”

Arthur giggled.  “No, Skip.  This is just how it is, when you first start dating someone.  You get used to it.  It’s only that it’s kind of new to you, so you’re…”

“Behaving like a melodramatic teenager?”

“Well I wasn’t going to _say_ that,” Arthur replied.

Martin gave a wry chuckle.  “Of course you weren’t.  You’re far too kind to me.”

“No such thing,” Arthur said. 

Martin closed his eyes and turned his head, burrowing into the hollow of Arthur’s shoulder.  He felt a hand come up to cradle the back of his head, sifting through his hair.  He stayed there, breathing, until he felt certain his voice would come out steady.  Then he said, “Will you teach me something new?”

“Of course.”

“Teach me about, um… what we talked about before.”  He took a deep breath and made himself say it: “Oral.  I want to try that.”

“Sure!” Arthur said.  “You’ll really like it; it’s one of my favourites.  Here, you lie on your side, and I’ll lie lower down on the bed so we’ll both be comfortable.”

“No, I meant…”  Martin could feel the heat rushing to his face.  “I want to do it for you first.  I want you to teach me what you like.  Please?”

Arthur was quiet and Martin twisted around to look at him, wondering if he’d said something wrong.  He found Arthur staring at him with wide, dark eyes.  A hectic patch of colour seeped in high on each cheek and his lips were parted and shiny, as if he’d just licked them.  “Arthur?”

“Yes,” Arthur said.  “Yes, I’d like that.  Quite a lot.  Really, really, very much.”

Martin couldn’t suppress a grin.  He could feel just how much Arthur liked the idea, poking him in the small of his back.  “Oh,” he said.  “Good.”

Arthur nodded rapidly.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and Martin felt something shift between them.  When Arthur opened his eyes, that cloak of self-assurance had fallen over him again.  Martin shivered.

“Shoes first,” Arthur said, with an amused twist to his mouth.

“Right,” Martin replied.  He moved to the side and they both got out of shoes and socks.  Then he turned, waiting for more instructions.  It was amazingly easy to slip into a kind of placid acceptance, knowing he didn’t have to worry about what came next.  Arthur would tell him.

“Lie back,” Arthur said.  “I want to kiss you for a while.” 

He did, sprawling on the bed, letting Arthur arrange his limbs the way he wanted.  They wound up face to face, each lying on their sides, legs intertwined.  Arthur cupped his cheek in one hand and threaded the other in his hair.  He kissed playfully, with such lighthearted glee that Martin couldn’t help a spate of giggles.  Arthur beamed and kissed the corners of his mouth, then the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.

They kissed until his lips tingled and a low thrum of arousal coiled in his belly, and then Arthur nibbled at his ear lobe.  A prickle of gooseflesh raced down his back and he moaned softly, angling his neck for more.  “Good,” Arthur murmured.  “Now bring your hands up, and start undoing my shirt.”

Martin did, fingers fumbling over the buttons at first.  Arthur kept kissing him, which was both lovely and terribly distracting.  He got halfway down the centre of Arthur’s chest and then he had to stop and pull Arthur close, nipping at his bottom lip.  Arthur made a pleased growl and nipped back, soothing the sting with the tip of his tongue. 

Then Arthur started on Martin’s shirt, making it all the way to his waist with surprising dexterity.  He slid his hands under the fabric and up, along the line of his spine, warm palms stroking over his skin.  Martin leaned into the touch.  There was something about feeling wrapped up and the heady rush of skin contact that did things to him.  He wanted to dive into that feeling, to drown in it, to breathe it in and store it up to take out later and savour. 

“Shh,” Arthur said, tucking him closer.  Martin realised he was trembling and took a deep breath.  His hands were fisted in Arthur’s shirt and he made himself let go.  He relaxed a little at a time, resting in the small, protected pocket of space Arthur had made for him. 

“Okay,” he said.  “I’m okay.”

“Good,” Arthur said.  “You’re doing brilliantly.  Finish my shirt now.”

Martin nodded and did; his hands were steadier.  He got through the buttons and pushed the material back, exposing Arthur’s shoulders.  He filled his hands up with the texture of Arthur’s skin, scooping up long, indulgent strokes.  He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the rounded curve of one shoulder and then licked, curious.  Arthur laughed and poked him in the side, tickling him a little.  Martin tickled him back, squirming his fingertips up Arthur’s ribs.

They rolled, both laughing, and he wound up on his back with Arthur sprawled out on top of him.  Arthur was solid, heavy, pinning him against the bed and Martin felt both helpless and secure.  Arthur looked down at him, eyes sparkling with laughter and something else.  Martin watched the expression change as mischief drained away and a kind of speculative glitter filled his eyes. 

“Right,” Arthur said softly.  He rolled onto his side and pulled his shirt off, then did the same for Martin’s.  He stretched out on his side, head propped up in one hand.  The other rested on Martin’s chest.  “Ready?”

Martin nodded.  He licked his lips, mouth gone dry, and reached out one hand to tug at the fastening of Arthur’s trousers.

Arthur caught his wrist, gently steering his hand away.  “Not yet.  Come here, touch me a while.  Remember how I’ve touched you?  Just exploring, getting to know you.”

“Right,” Martin said.  “I… where do I start?”

“Wherever you like.”

Martin hesitated, one hand hovering over the curve of Arthur’s ribs and the soft inward dip of his waist.  He met Arthur’s eyes, not sure what his face was showing.  They’d touched before, certainly, but it was different this way.  Different with Arthur lying there still and Martin choosing what happened next.

“Want me to tell you how?” Arthur asked.

“Yes,” Martin said.  “No.  Yes.  Sorry, it’s silly, this is silly, isn’t it?  You don’t have to.  I can…”

“Shh,” Arthur said.  He smiled; no hint of impatience or mocking in that look.  Martin smiled back, relaxing.  Arthur shifted, lying on his back.  “Start at my shoulders; go from each side into the centre.”

Martin did, cupping the broad curve of a shoulder in his palm and sliding in toward the hollow of Arthur’s neck.  He knew Arthur was strong; he’d felt it when Arthur held him, but it was still surprising to feel the shift and pull of muscle under the skin.  He sought out the shape of Arthur’s collarbone with the tips of his fingers and rubbed his thumb underneath.  Compared to the solidity of his shoulders, the bone felt thin and delicate.  Arthur—irrepressible, resilient, flexible Arthur—was flesh and blood and vulnerable like anyone else.  Breakable. 

On impulse, he leaned in and kissed Arthur’s throat, feeling the flutter of his pulse.  He felt Arthur’s hand come up to the back of his head, holding him in place, and the skin beneath his lips vibrated as Arthur made an approving hum. 

“Good,” Arthur said.  “That’s really nice.  Just like that, but now make a trail down the middle.”  He steered with his hand, guiding Martin’s head.  Martin closed his eyes, the better to concentrate on the rest of it.  The warm, clean scent of Arthur’s skin, the faint taste of salt and soft, smooth texture, even the sound of Arthur’s breathing, growing slightly faster.  He kissed down the line of his sternum and under the edge of his ribs, where his belly was soft and inviting.  Arthur was slightly ticklish there and squirmed when Martin added a flick of his tongue.

Martin grinned up at him and found Arthur smiling merrily back; still sweet, happy  Arthur, but with dark, intent eyes.  “Bit lower,” Arthur said.  “Along my waist.  You can use your teeth, but not too hard.”

Martin nibbled a little, finding the faint pudge of softness around Arthur’s middle endearing.  Curious, he dipped the point of his tongue into the hollow of Arthur’s belly button, and smirked when Arthur made a soft, wanting sound.  He did it again, then kissed a ring around the edge, nipping and then soothing with his lips.  He tugged at the waist of Arthur’s trousers (aware of a rush of smugness when he saw the tented shape of the fabric) and kissed the thin band of skin he’d uncovered. 

“Oh, um,” Arthur panted, hips shifting restlessly.  “Undo the trousers now.  Get them off.  _Please._ ”

He went for the buttons, opening them with a delicate touch, careful to keep his fingers from brushing against Arthur.  Martin was aware of the effort it took Arthur to be still; he was quivering with it, lip bitten, hands clutching the blanket at his sides.  The idea that _he_ had done this, gotten Arthur to such a point of desperate arousal with only kissing and touching, was both astonishing and deeply gratifying. 

He drew the trousers down Arthur’s hips and off, Arthur helping by kicking out of them.  Arthur wore boxers; today it was a pair of white ones with little red ‘Superman’ logos all over them.  Something about that made this easier; it was impossible to be intimidated by a man in superhero underwear. 

“Now touch,” Arthur said.  “Like the last time, at your flat.  You remember what I like.”

Martin nodded.  He remembered very well.  He stroked a line with his fingertips along the shape of Arthur’s cock through his underwear.  It was hot even through the cotton, and Arthur twitched and shuddered, pressing up against the touch.  Martin found the tip and rubbed there, making little circles with his thumb.  He kept at it until Arthur was whimpering and the material was damp under his thumb, and then he curled his fingers, giving Arthur a firm squeeze.

“Oh, oh, now,” Arthur gasped.  “Take the pants off, quick.”  He lifted his hips and Martin tugged the elastic waist, slipping it down.  He wound up staring right at Arthur’s cock, inches away, and he caught his breath.  Touching at arm’s length was quite a bit different than this up-close view.  His eyes widened ( _how am I going to fit that in my mouth?_ ) and he went still.

“Um,” Martin said.  His voice came out in a rusty croak.

“Just touch, at first,” Arthur coaxed.  “You’ve done that before.  You’re really, really good at it.”

Encouraged, Martin used his fingertips again.  The skin was just as velvety as he remembered, already slippery with pre-come.  Arthur moaned and flopped back, hips stuttering upward, one arm flung across his eyes.  Martin curled a fist around him and gave him a long, slow stroke.  He could smell the arousal from this close, sharp and heady.  It did something to him, the feeling of Arthur’s skin and the way he writhed and arched and those sounds he made, unrestrained and eager.  He put his free hand between his legs, rubbing through his trousers, and his eyes fluttered shut as he grunted in relief. 

“Yes,” Arthur said, propped up on his elbows, looking down at him.  His eyes were heavy-lidded and dazed, chest and face flushed, lips parted.  “Keep doing that.  That’s perfect.”

Caught, Martin took his hand away, grimly ignoring the protesting throb from his groin.  “Sorry, I…”

“Don’t stop.”  Arthur watched, waiting until Martin touched himself again, fingers pressing firm through his trousers.  “Good, exactly like that.  Now lean in, and lick, just a little.  Just at the tip.  Keep using your hand, too.”

Martin gave a curious lick, startled by the taste.  The skin was hot and smooth under his tongue and he lapped like he would an ice cream cone, up the sides with a swirl at the tip.  Arthur groaned; the sound was muffled and Martin glanced up to see that Arthur had the side of his hand in his mouth, biting at it. 

“Okay?” he asked.

“Mmmm yes, yes,” Arthur mumbled.  “Do you know how long I’ve been looking at your mouth?  Do it again, _please._ ”

It took a little time to get coordinated, trying to work both hands and his mouth, but Martin was motivated.  He developed a rhythm, one hand giving himself a squeezing stroke, just enough to whet that edge of arousal into something keen and greedy.  The other he kept on Arthur, a snug fist for him to push into.  He licked around the tip, finding out what made Arthur gasp and what made him give that low, helpless moan that he couldn’t get enough of.  When he rubbed the slippery back of his tongue over that sensitive spot just below the head, Arthur cried out, balls drawing up tight against his body.

“Oh, oh, very soon,” Arthur said.  “Mmm, other hand, put your arm across my thighs.  I need you to hold me down, I can’t… oh I knew you’d have a brilliant mouth.”

Martin took his hand away from his cock with effort; after so long rubbing through his clothes the skin felt hypersensitive and even the pressure of his trousers was maddening.  His hips rocked against the air as he braced his forearm against Arthur.  “Like this?” he asked, and then dabbed the point of his tongue right at the tip of his cock, wriggling it.

“Ah!” Arthur gasped, and Martin felt him lurch up against his bracing arm.  He was grateful for Arthur’s forethought; this kept him from getting more of a mouthful than he could handle.  “Yes, nnng, now your mouth, your whole mouth, as much as you can.  Don’t worry about trying to get it all, just what you can, anything will be so good…”

Martin went slow, wetting his lips and then stretching them in a ring around the head of Arthur’s cock.  He could feel the weight of it on his tongue, the pressure filling up his mouth.  He breathed through his nose and went as deep as he could, pulling back when he felt the start of a gag reflex at the back of his throat. 

“Oh that’s good,” Arthur murmured. “Easy now, you’re brilliant, you’re wonderful, you don’t have to try so hard.  Just, unh, right there, right at the tip, now suck a little…”  His hand tangled in the hair at the nape of Martin’s neck, holding him in place, pulling him back when he tried to go too deep.  It was a relief to be guided.  Martin shifted, pinning Arthur in place more firmly, formed his lips in a snug circle around the tip and sucked.  Arthur twisted and babbled something, breathless and fast.

Martin wanted badly to touch himself again, his cock throbbing impatiently and still trapped in his trousers, but he needed both hands for this.  He rubbed with the flat of his tongue and danced the tip along the edges of the crown, then bobbed his head a little, lips sliding.  He could feel Arthur losing control, hips rocking helplessly.  Martin pulled his hand away from Arthur’s cock long enough to lick the palm, getting it thoroughly wet, and then he stroked again.  Arthur keened, head tossing back and forth on the bed, trembling all over. 

“Oh, oh god, um, close,” Arthur said.  “Little tighter, move your tongue in a circle… oh yes, like that, nnnng yes…”  His hand tightened in Martin’s hair and then gave a tug, pulling him back.  “Now,” Arthur moaned, “now, now, nownownow…”

Martin fought against Arthur’s guiding hand, wanting to finish properly, and wound up with the first spurt in his mouth.  Startled at how fast it came out, he lost most of it down his chin, and then he pulled back, rubbing and licking behind the head as Arthur came in long, shivering waves.

He rested his cheek on Arthur’s thigh, feeling him shaking, and smiled at the sensation of fingers sliding into his hair, stroking him.  He pressed between his legs, fumbling with his fly, unable to wait any longer.  Finally getting a hand around his bare skin was heavenly, and when he realised his palm was still wet with spit and pre-come from Arthur, oh god, that was nearly enough.  He moaned, curled with his head on Arthur’s leg and his arse in the air, hips pressing forward into his hand.

“Stop,” Arthur said firmly, and Martin stopped before he could think about it.  He whimpered, giving Arthur a pleading look.  Arthur held out his arms.  “Come here.”

Martin did, uncaring that Arthur’s chest was spattered with come, only wanting to lean in so he could grind against Arthur’s hip.  He was close, already close, and he’d been waiting so _long._

Arthur caught him, turning them both deftly, with a really unfair amount of focus for a man who’d just come that hard.  He slid down the bed, taking Martin’s trousers and pants with him, pushing them off to the side.  “Shh,” he said, putting a strong hand on Martin’s hip, holding him still.

“Can’t,” Martin said.  “That was amazing, the way you felt and the _sounds_ you made and oh, oh I want.”   

“ _You_ were amazing,” Arthur replied.  “Want me to show you how it feels?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Martin babbled.  He brought one hand to his cock, squeezing, and Arthur caught him by the wrist and pulled him away.  Martin moaned in protest, squirming, toes curling as he twisted on the bed.

“Easy now,” Arthur said, soothing.  “You’re too close.  Need to calm down a little.”

“Can’t,” Martin said again.  “I didn’t know, I didn’t _know_ it would feel like that.  Nearly came in my pants, if you hadn’t made me take my hand away I would have.  Just thinking of…”  He lifted his head, watching Arthur, seeing the soft curve of his mouth, and then he groaned and flopped back down, hips bucking up against Arthur’s bracing hand. 

Arthur waited, pressing little kisses along the arch of each hip and the tops of Martin’s thighs.  It was a tease, the promise of more to come, and Martin made a low whining sound and tried to catch his breath.  He counted, an old trick when he was feeling overwhelmed, measuring each inhale for a beat of five, holding it, and then letting it out for the same count.  Gradually he could feel the pounding of his heart ease.

“Good,” Arthur murmured.  “Good, you’re doing so well.  I’m really, really proud of you.”

This was a balm, a sweet cool drink on a hot day, and Martin soaked it up.  “Thank you,” he said softly.  “It’s better now.”

Arthur nodded.  Then he curled his hand around Martin’s cock and stroked him, slow and deliberate.  It was snug and decadent, not quite fast enough to take him over the edge but a simmer of pleasure that swirled in his belly and radiated out, tingling in his palms and the soles of his feet.  “Watch,” Arthur said, and Martin looked down.  He saw Arthur’s smile, and then the pink dart of his tongue, reaching out to lap at him.

It was soft and wet and wickedly clever, curling around him and finding all the best spots.  Martin cried out, something wordless and pleading.  Arthur seemed to understand.  He put both hands on Martin’s hips, pinning him securely, and then he took him down, far deeper than Martin had managed.  The sudden slick heat was incredible, but it was the _sight_ of him, eyes closed in concentration, mouth stretched around him, sliding up and down…

“Oh god,” Martin gasped, “oh please, that’s so _good,_ please don’t stop, oh yes yes yes…”

Arthur gave an encouraging hum, the vibration pushing him that much closer, and then he added a long, swirling lick with each stroke. 

Martin tried to hold back, he really did; he wanted this to last.  He didn’t want it to ever stop.  But the wet slide of it was too much, too good and the feeling of Arthur holding him down and that clever, clever tongue and: “Arthur, now, now, unnnnh I can’t…”

Arthur took him all the way in and swallowed around him, a ripple of sensation rocking through him and that was it.  Martin gave himself over to it, all thought fading away beneath a crashing wave of feeling.  He could distantly hear himself shouting something, could feel his mouth working, but the words were lost.  Arthur brought him through it, his mouth growing gentle at the end, cradling him with little licks and the soft pressure of his lips.

Everything went distant and swimmy; the next time he opened his eyes, Arthur was beside him, regarding him steadily.  Martin touched his cheek with two trembling fingertips.  “Arthur,” he whispered.

“I know,” Arthur said.  He pulled Martin close, both of them naked, and tugged up the corner of the blanket to wrap around them in a cocoon.   He ran a hand up and down Martin’s back.  The other curled in his hair, petting it idly.  Martin closed his eyes.  He could feel the damp prickle threatening at the back of them and he swallowed hard.  He took a long breath and let it out in a shuddery sigh.

Arthur said nothing, just kept stroking him until his breathing steadied and he felt wrapped in cotton batting, insulated from the world.  “So,” Martin said eventually.  “Not bad for my first try?”

Arthur chuckled.  “Amazing and fantastic and just, wow.  Really, really wow.”

Martin grinned.  “What, not brilliant?”

“Lots of things are brilliant,” Arthur said, pulling back to look at him.  “Take-offs and cake and sunsets and hot baths.  The world is full of brilliant things.  But you are more than that.”

“Oh,” Martin said in a small voice.  He burrowed close, loose-limbed and sleepy and content.  “You’re more than that, too.”

Arthur said nothing, but he pressed a warm, tender kiss to Martin’s forehead just before he fell asleep.


	3. I Can Tell The Difference

_Come to my place tonight._

Martin blinked at his phone, trying to make sense of the text.  Five words, perfectly clear, but he couldn’t get them to line up logically in his head.  Arthur was inviting him over.  For what, exactly?  And, for that matter, was it really an invitation?  Usually those were more of a question— _would you come over tonight?—_ and less of a command. 

He typed out four different replies and deleted them without sending.  This, he thought, was both the advantage and curse of texting.  You could think about what you were going to say and plan it out, but you could also second-guess yourself endlessly.  If you were Martin Crieff, that was. 

Finally, muttering under his breath and rolling his eyes at himself for overthinking things, he sent a simple reply: _Why?_

The response was quick.  _Because I want to see you._

Well.  It was Arthur, of course he was going to be both literal and honest.  It was actually rather refreshing.  No need to try to read into the statements or look for hidden meanings.  Perhaps it was best to be direct in return.  _Won’t your mother be there?_

_No,_ came Arthur’s reply.  _She’s going out.  Come over._

That at least clarified what he could expect from the evening.  Not that he’d seriously thought he was being invited to a ‘meet the parents’ style dinner.  He’d already met Carolyn, of course.  It wasn’t like he needed to be formally introduced as the new boyfriend.  If, in fact, he _was_ the new boyfriend.  Wasn’t he?  Arthur had been pretty clear about that.  ‘We’re together now,’ and so forth.  Surely that counted. 

Martin shook his head and made a dismissive flick with his fingers.  It wasn’t going to be that kind of evening.  It was going to be the much more fun kind.  The kind which involved Arthur touching him and teaching him things and holding him and… and doing all of it in a house where _Carolyn_ lived.  Carolyn, Arthur’s fiercely intimidating mother who might not be actually present but who could come home at any time and oh god, how was this a good idea?  This was a _terrible_ idea.  This was just asking Martin’s rotten luck to intervene.

_Can you come to my place instead?_

_No.  There is something I want to try.  You don’t have a big bathtub._

Martin stared at the words for a while.  He could feel heat slowly rising up his face and radiating to the tips of his ears, which must be crimson by now.  He ducked his head, tucking the phone closer to his chest to hide the screen, even though he was alone in the privacy of his little flat. 

This was still tempting fate, he was sure.  Still a recipe for disaster.  But still, the thought of what Arthur might come up with, and what he might look like, wet and naked and flushed with the warmth of the water…

_What exactly do you want to try?_

_Come over at seven and find out._

There was really only one possible answer.  _Okay.  Yes._

_Good._

*

Martin got to Arthur’s place early; he was always early.  He hated rushing and worrying about being late so he always left in plenty of time, which generally resulted in showing up far earlier than expected.  He was the guy who showed up on time for a party and tried to look occupied on his mobile until other people started arriving.  Not that he went to many parties, of course.

Still, showing up early meant that Carolyn’s car was still in the drive.  His van wasn’t exactly inconspicuous so he could either park around the block and wait, or go in early and face her.  He had just started it up again and was checking his mirrors when she came out of the house, headed for her car.  She looked right at him and paused.

Martin almost decided to floor it anyway, intent on escaping.  Two things stopped him.  One, he was in an elderly transit van, not a sports car, and trying to dash away would only result in the old girl lumbering down the street with a pained lurch.  And two, she’d seen him, and running would be embarrassing.  Possibly even more embarrassing then her coming over to talk to him… which, oh dear god, was happening now.  Martin sank lower in his seat and turned off the engine.

“Martin,” she said, peering in his window.  The van sat high off the ground and she had to crane her neck to look up at him.  It was a small comfort.

“Carolyn,” he said, trying for a casual tone.  His voice came out thin and reedy.  “What brings you here?”

She gave him a level stare.  “I live here.”

“Right.  Yes.  Right, you do, of course you… I didn’t mean…”

She waved away his babbling with an impatient gesture.  “Let’s not make this more awkward than it is.  You are, I presume, here to see Arthur?”

Martin nodded, lips pressed together to keep quiet.

“Fine.  That at least explains why he was bouncing round the house and singing all afternoon.”

“He was?”

She held up a hand.  “Don’t.  I am going out.  I will be back late, and I expect I will not see or _hear_ you.  Understood?”

He was going bright red again, he could feel it.  “Yes,” he said meekly.

Her expression softened marginally and she rolled her eyes.  “Much as I enjoy this apparent ability to strike fear into your heart, do try to look less like a cornered rabbit.  You are at least a minor improvement over that ridiculous Mimsy girl he used to date.”

“Oh,” he said.  “Thank you?”

She stepped back and nodded toward the house.  “Go on.  You’re not going to sit here in your van waiting for me to leave, that’s absurd.”

He climbed down and stood, one hand on the van to keep him steady.  “You, um… you don’t mind?”

“Mind what, exactly?” she asked, and then immediately shook her head.  “No, don’t explain, it’s going to take you far too long to stumble over the right words and I haven’t got time.  As long as I can reasonably ignore the details, and as long as Arthur remains as preposterously happy as he’s been this past week, you have my blessing.  Will that suffice?  Because I would be delighted to go the rest of my life without continuing this conversation.” 

He nodded rapidly.  “Yes, that’s… thank you.  Really.”

She gave an impatient huff, but he caught a glimpse of her expression as she turned away, and it was almost fond.  He walked toward the house, distantly aware of the crunch of gravel under Carolyn’s car as she pulled out.  Arthur had been preposterously happy?  More so than his usual baseline level of sunny good cheer?  It didn’t seem likely, but then again, Douglas had commented that Arthur was ‘glowing’ and if Carolyn had noticed too, then maybe it was true. 

Arthur greeted him at the door, tugged him into the house, and threw his arms around Martin in an exuberant hug.  “I saw you talking to Mum,” he said, words muffled where his mouth pressed against Martin’s shoulder. 

“Yes,” Martin said.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  Arthur’s scent carried his usual combination of tea, soap, and fabric softener but there was something else in there tonight, some faint citrus spice.  He snuffled into the hollow of Arthur’s neck, leaning in and allowing him to take more of his weight. 

“Sorry,” Arthur said.  “I know you didn’t want to run into her.  She left later than I thought.”

“It’s okay,” Martin replied.  “It actually went pretty well.  I think she approves.”

“Of course she does.”

Martin leaned back to look at Arthur and raised a quizzical eyebrow.  “Really?  Of her son dating an unpaid pilot with an unreliable removals business and a shabby little flat in a shared house?”

“Mum doesn’t care about that,” Arthur said.  “A lot of the girls I’ve dated had loads of money but they didn’t like me, or their families didn’t like me, or they decided they wanted to date someone else without telling me first.  It always made me feel bad, and Mum doesn’t like it when that happens.  It’s different with you.”

“I suppose so,” Martin said, but he couldn’t help smiling.  “Another thing, Arthur—I know you told me you like men and women, but I’ve only ever heard you talk about dating women.  Are you sure you’re… well, I mean, obviously you’re sure, but… you have dated other men before, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” Arthur said.  He took Martin by the hand and led him through the house.  “I mean, not for a while.  I used to do it more, when I was younger, but Dad didn’t like it.  He really, really didn’t like it a _lot._ That was before he and Mum split up and they fought about a bunch of things, but that was a big one.  So I stopped.  I didn’t want to make it worse.”

“Oh,” Martin said.  He squeezed Arthur’s hand.  “I’m sorry.”

Arthur shrugged.  “It was too late anyway, they still got divorced.  And it’s better now.  Mum is happier.”

“Yes, I imagine she would be,” Martin replied.  “And you?  Are you happier now he’s gone?”

Arthur was quiet for several steps, and then paused in front of a closed door.  “Yes,” he said, eyes focused somewhere on Martin’s left shoulder.  “That’s a terrible thing to say, isn’t it?  I shouldn’t be happy that he’s gone.  He’s my dad.”

“I remember how he was in St. Petersburg,” Martin said.  He pressed two fingers below Arthur’s chin, raising it up until their eyes met.  “You didn’t do anything wrong, you know.  It’s okay to be glad to get away from someone when they treat you so badly.”

Arthur gave him a tremulous smile.  “It wasn’t always like that.  It used to be good, the three of us.  I tried really, really hard to fix it.”

There was nothing Martin could think to say to that; no magic words that would make it better.  Instead, he pulled Arthur into a kiss.  It was gentle and lazy, a lingering caress over his bottom lip and dabs to the corners of his mouth.  He felt when Arthur began to smile at the touch, and he smiled in return, their lips curving against each other.

“Never mind all that,” Arthur said, words whispering warm against Martin’s cheek.  “I asked you here for something else, and I think you’re going to like it.”

“I’ve liked everything so far,” Martin said.  “So I think you’re right.”

Arthur beamed and opened the door, leading them both into a bedroom.  “This one is mine,” he said.  “This is my part of the house.  Do you like it?”

Martin looked around.  One corner was dominated by a television and a video game console, both situated in front of an enormous beanbag chair.  A single controller sat in the dent at the centre of the chair; two other controllers were neatly wrapped in their cords and tucked away on a shelf.  Another shelf held a collection of DVDs, which seemed to be a combination of nature documentaries and Disney movies. 

A battered and overstuffed armchair sat in the other spare corner, next to a bookshelf packed with books, framed photos, board games, and several Airfix models.  Between these corners, a half-open door led into a bathroom; he could just glimpse the tiled floor and the edge of the sink.  The other half of the bedroom was taken up by the bed itself; king size and messy, laden with far more pillows than any one person could possibly use. 

The walls were a cheerful pale yellow (of course) and two wide windows overlooked the back garden; they were covered with sheer curtains that let in the waning purplish evening light.  There were posters everywhere, mainly for movies featuring comic book heroes, but a few with pictures of shiny aeroplanes in flight.  It was, Martin thought, a very _Arthurish_ sort of room.

“Yes,” he said.  “It’s brilliant.”

Arthur giggled at Martin’s choice of words.  “Come on,” he said, tugging eagerly at Martin’s hand.  “This is the best part.” 

They walked into the bathroom, and Martin’s eyes widened.  He took notice of the walk-in closet to one side (stuffed and chaotic with at least a quarter of it given over to Arthur’s approximation of a steward’s uniform) and the double vanity and sink to the other, but the room was dominated by the tremendous bathtub. 

It was sunken into a raised platform and set in front of three angled windows, with a tiled shelf all the way around the tub and stairs leading up to it from the lower level.  Arthur had clearly been busy; the shelf was ringed with candles, all lit, flickering points of light reflected in window glass made opaque by the darkening night sky outside.  Small bottles of scented oil stood by the taps, and a large jug of bubble bath beside them looked incongruous with its cheery pink label. 

“Oh,” Martin said softly.  “Is that for us?”

Arthur came up behind him and slipped arms around his waist.  “Yes,” he murmured.  “I’ve got a treat in mind for you.”

His breath tickled the hairs on the nape of Martin’s neck, and he shivered.  Martin closed his eyes, swayed back against Arthur, and let out a long breath.  He could already feel the quiet falling over his mind, making him pliant and calm.  Something about Arthur speaking in that tone of voice, holding him close; his body had learnt fast how to respond.

“Go look at the oils,” Arthur said.  “Pick one.  Take your time and make sure it’s one you like.”

Martin did, drifting across the room.  Arthur moved around him and turned on the taps; the rush of water filled his ears.  The white noise was soothing, one more layer of insulation.  He sat on the shallow steps, the tub filling behind him, and sniffed each bottle of oil.  One was vanilla, which he discarded as too cloying and sweet.  The next was sandalwood, which he considered, but found a little too strong.  The third was eucalyptus and mint, and the fourth was lavender; he wavered between these for a while but eventually put the lavender down. 

“This one,” he said, holding the eucalyptus and mint bottle out to Arthur.

“Good,” Arthur said.  “Perfect, well done.”

He was aware that this was a foolish thing to be praised over, and an even more foolish thing to be proud of, but the knowledge was distant, the way a fish might be aware of rain on the surface of a lake.  He inhaled as Arthur drizzled some oil in the water.  The scent rose with the steam, filling the room.

The bubble bath was next, quickly foaming up into a thick layer of froth.  Arthur pulled him to his feet and began removing his clothes.  Martin wasn’t sure if it was the sound of the water, the warm scented air, or the growing ease of his time with Arthur, but he felt no self-consciousness as Arthur stripped him.  He stood with his eyes half-lidded and his arms limp at his sides, taking deep breaths.

When he was naked, Arthur stepped in close again and wrapped him in a hug.  Another new sensation—Arthur’s fully clothed body against his own bare skin.  Martin put his hands on Arthur’s waist and then dipped his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt, wanting more. 

Arthur chuckled and tugged his shirt over his head.  “Good,” he said.  “I like that.  You should always ask for what you want.”

“Will you join me, then?” Martin asked.

“Yes.”  Arthur kissed him, one hand cupping his jaw.  With the other he tugged at the fastening of his trousers.  He managed to get them open without breaking the kiss and they slithered down his hips; he was bare underneath them.

He stepped out of the trousers and held Martin again, both of them naked this time.  Martin caught his breath at the rush of contact.  He nosed into the hollow of Arthur’s throat and ran his hands up the other man’s back in broad strokes.  Arthur did the same, palms wide and firm on his back, and Martin made a soft sound in his throat.

“Lovely,” Arthur murmured, and kissed the curve of his neck.  “Come on.” 

He guided Martin over to the tub and they stepped in.  It was deep, and filled to the brim, the bubbles threatening to slop over the sides as they sank into the water.  It was steaming hot and came up nearly to Martin’s chin when he sat down.  Arthur turned off the taps, then settled behind Martin, pulling him up against his chest.

After the rumble of the water, the sudden silence was sharp and clear.  Martin could hear the soft _plink_ of the last few drops sliding off the faucet and hitting the water, and the faint crackle of the bubbles popping as they moved.  He laid limp, fingertips stirring the water in little arcs, chin resting on his chest as his head lolled against Arthur’s shoulder.     

They stretched out, semi-weightless in the water.  Arthur pressed lazy kisses to his neck and shoulder, then up his cheek and over his temple, nuzzling in the line of his hair.  His hand trailed up and down Martin’s chest.  The water felt light and slick, sliding and beading over his skin with the trace of scented oil.  He lost track of time, drifting in the circle of Arthur’s arms.

“There are two new things,” Arthur said, voice a low rumble in his ear.

Martin took a sharp breath, startled.  He’d been half-asleep.  “Muh?”

Arthur giggled.  “Two new things,” he repeated patiently.  “The bath is the first thing.  This part is intimacy.  We’re not going to have sex, but I’m going to touch you and wash you and keep you close.  You’re going to let me do everything.  Completely relax and trust me to keep your head above the water.”

“Mmm,” Martin hummed, and nodded.  “What’s the second thing?”

“You’ll see.”

Martin knew better than to protest this tease.  The anticipation was pleasant, anyway; a warm pulse of curious interest low in his belly. 

He kept his eyes closed and went obediently loose-limbed, feeling Arthur shift around him.  One hand curled behind his head and another supported his lower back, laying him out in the water.  He felt the surface of it come up around his neck, and then higher, lapping at his cheeks and covering his ears.  His head tilted back until only his face was out of the water.  The immediate impulse was to tense his neck muscles and hold his head up but he pushed it aside.  Arthur had him.  Arthur would not let him sink.

He was lifted and placed against Arthur’s chest again.  He heard a click and a liquid sound, and then Arthur’s hands were in his hair, rubbing in some kind of gel.  He could smell it, different than the scented oil, something mild and soapy.  His head turned back and forth under Arthur’s touch, nudged here and there.  He could feel the water at his chin and little wavelets brushed at his bottom lip.  Martin focused on staying fully relaxed.  With each exhale, he deliberately let a little more go.

When Arthur ducked his head under to rinse his hair, the water closed around his face again, leaving his nose and mouth above the surface.  It was easier to remain still this time.  He waited, breathing steadily, until Arthur lifted him.

“Good,” Arthur whispered, and kissed his forehead.  “You’re doing so well.”

Martin smiled, but didn’t open his eyes or speak.  He didn’t want to disturb the quiet in his head. 

He was moved again, lying on his side and cradled in one of Arthur’s arms while the other washed him.  He felt the touch of the wet cloth and smelled more of the soap.  Martin focused on the small things.  The texture of the cloth as it dragged across his skin, leaving him feeling scrubbed and new.  The faint tickle on the nape of his neck as water ran down from his hair.  The steady sound of Arthur’s breathing, low and calm beside him. 

He wasn’t sure how long it went on.  Long enough for the water to begin to cool, and the mounds of bubbles to droop into a thin layer of white on the surface.  His fingers and toes pruned and his skin tingled.  Arthur had cleaned every inch of him, including some rather personal bits, but Martin had been too deep to mind.

“All right, time to get out,” Arthur said, sitting him up straight.  Martin immediately began to list to the side when Arthur let go, and he laughed.  “Skip, come on,” he said.  “I’m glad you’re so relaxed; you did great at that.  But you’re too slippery to carry.”

Martin opened his eyes with effort and took a deep breath.  His muscles didn’t want to cooperate.  His legs felt like rubber as he clambered out of the tub and stood dripping on the floor.  Arthur was there with a huge fluffy towel before he could start to feel cold.  He wrapped it around both of them, drawing close.  Martin kissed the curve of his shoulder, tasting water and oil and clean, damp skin.

Arthur dried them both with cursory swipes of the towel, and then opened the door.  The dry cool air outside the steamy bathroom washed over them, waking Martin up a bit.  They tumbled onto the bed and sprawled there.  Martin stretched out on his belly, arms folded beneath one of the pillows.

“So,” Martin said after a minute.  “What’s the second thing?”

Arthur rolled to face him.  “Another kind of intimacy.”  He put his hand on the small of Martin’s back, and then slid it down to lie on the curve of his arse.

Martin tensed.  “Um,” he said.  “Do you mean…”

“No,” Arthur replied, smiling.  “Not that.  Not yet.  This is something different.”

Martin shifted, very aware of the warm weight of Arthur’s hand.  His fingertips moved, tracing along the cleft, a soft brushing made smooth by the lingering layer of oil.  “Okay,” he said, hesitant.

“Trust me,” Arthur replied.  “That’s what we’re doing tonight—trust.  Stay just like you are, on your front, and do as I say.  You can always tell me to stop.”

Martin nodded and kept still.  Arthur moved over him, knees to either side of his hips.  He leaned down and kissed the line of Martin’s back, making a line from the nape of his neck to his tailbone.  He took his time with it, lapping at the skin, nibbling a little.  He left a series of points, each one a spark of sensation and coolness as the moisture evaporated. 

Right at the sacrum he branched out, kissing the small dimples above the swell of Martin’s arse.  The line of his jaw was clean shaven, but the texture was still rougher than the tender skin beneath it and Martin could feel the nerve endings waking up.  Arthur tugged at his hips, guiding him to bend his knees and lift his behind in the air.  It was an astonishingly vulnerable position, on his knees and shoulders, face pressed into the pillow and arse hanging out. 

“Shh,” Arthur said, stroking his back again.  “Gorgeous, perfect, just like that.”

Martin could feel a swirl of nerves rush up his chest and tighten his throat, but there was also that low throb of arousal and anticipation.  He was beginning to suspect where this was going.

Arthur kissed him again, lower now, wide lingering kisses from his tailbone and then out to either side.  His hands held Martin’s hips, thumbs curving in to draw him open.  Cool air rushed over his skin and he squirmed.  Arthur pressed more kisses to the exposed skin, grazing just around the centre and lower, to mouth at his perineum.  He drew one ball into his mouth and rolled it, sucking gently.  Martin jerked and caught his breath.

Arthur repeated this treatment with the other, back and forth, always cradling the tender flesh with the utmost care.  Martin could hear his breathing grow rapid, could feel it rasping in his throat, but all his focus was on that point of sensation.  Arthur’s mouth was warm and tantalizing and he remembered very well how it felt on his cock.  He was tempted to roll over and beg for it there again; he was already hard, hips shifting restlessly. 

He kept quiet though, too curious about what Arthur had in mind instead.  Too eager to find out how it would feel.  Arthur kept him waiting, teasing and licking and nibbling behind his balls and over his skin.  He bit at the meaty curve of his arse, then soothed with more kisses, laughing when Martin yelped.  Then, finally, in again, where he was still spread wide by those thumbs.  He lapped in a spiral toward the centre.

Martin quivered, going taut, and bit back a moan as Arthur got close.  It was the oddest sensation; warm and wriggling and wet, obscenely intimate and impossibly good.  Arthur hummed in satisfaction, the rumble of his voice shooting through Martin and making his cock twitch against his belly.  He pressed harder, laving at him with broad flat licks.  Then he pointed his tongue and flicked _in_ with the tip, rubbing around the sensitive inner rim.

“Oh god,” Martin groaned, muffled against the pillow.  “ _Arthur_ oh god don’t stop that’s _amazing_.”

“Mmm,” Arthur agreed, another vibration of sound making Martin twist and buck his hips.  He was tireless, licking and sucking at him, soft and strong and swirling and Martin thought he might float away.  He yanked one hand out from under the pillow and got it between his legs, giving himself a much needed long, indulgent stroke.  He cried out in relief and pushed into his fist, then back against Arthur’s mouth, caught teetering between the two points of pleasure.

Arthur let him get away with this, hands occupied holding him, mouth busy opening him up.  He hummed and worried at the skin, then curled his tongue and pushed it in, wriggling the tip.  Martin’s eyes rolled back in his head and he gasped something garbled and unintelligible.  He curled his hand tighter, rubbing with his thumb just below the head.

“Arthur,” he panted, “yes, yes, how did you… how can you… _unnnh_ just like that…”

Then, far too fast for him to protest, Arthur pulled back and flipped him onto his back.  Martin drew a breath, ready to beg him not to stop, please, anything, he couldn’t stop.  Arthur beat him to it, leaning down, bracing his hips with both hands, and swallowing him to the root.  Martin shouted and arched his back, hands clutching at the blankets, toes curling.  It was perfect, stunning, he could still feel the tingling echo of sensation in his arse where Arthur’s mouth had just been and now there was that delicious wet heat rippling around him, sucking him in.

He came within seconds, too far gone to hold back.  He breathed in great shuddering gasps, chest aching and all his muscles locked taut.  There was a brief moment of feeling complete, connected, as if every part of him was working in harmony with every other part.  The pleasure sharpened to an eye-watering peak and then all his muscles went lax and he flopped, limp and helpless on the bed.

It was a long moment before he remembered to breathe and when he drew that first ragged inhale he became aware of his fingers and toes tingling with numbness and his vision going grey and blurry.  Something warm wrapped around him and then Arthur was on top of him, his cock a firm pressure against Martin’s abdomen.  He was making eager little whimpers and shifting, mouthing at the line of Martin’s collarbone and sucking marks into his neck.

“Martin,” he mumbled, “sorry, I can’t, I have to, I can’t wait anymore.”

“Good,” Martin said.  A rush of pleased satisfaction swelled in his chest; there was something he very much liked about that greedy, desperate tone.  “Don’t wait.”

“Mmm oh,” Arthur moaned, rubbing harder, fitting neatly into the curve where Martin’s hip met his belly.  “The sounds you made and the way you moved… you liked it, I knew you’d like it.  I knew you’d lose control.”

“Yes,” Martin said, urging him on with a hand on his arse.  He turned and licked a line up Arthur’s throat, then nibbled his earlobe.  “It was incredible.  I can’t believe you did that.”

“Can’t believe you let me,” Arthur replied.  He went faster, gliding on sweat and oil, body trembling with effort.  “Should’ve seen yourself, open like that, letting me in, giving me… oh, oh god, _nnnnng_ please…” 

“Anything you want,” Martin whispered to him, rocking with Arthur’s rhythm.  “Anything you ask for.”

Arthur came with a sharp cry, broken like a sob, and collapsed on top of him, gasping for breath.  “Thank you,” he murmured.  “Thank you, you don’t know, you don’t know what that means to me but thank you.”

“I know,” Martin said.  “I know what it means.”

Limp with exhaustion, Arthur managed to roll off him, pulling them over on their sides.  They lay face to face.  He leaned in, pressing their foreheads together, and curled a hand at the nape of Martin’s neck.  Martin mirrored the movement, cradling Arthur’s head.  They breathed the same air, both of them settling into a sleepy calm. 

“Do you?” Arthur asked, as if there had been no pause in the conversation.

“I’m starting to,” Martin replied.  He opened his eyes, looking at Arthur.  The room was dim, lit only by the lingering candlelight from the bathroom, a warm glow that limned them both in gold and glistened on their damp skin.  “You said it was about intimacy, and trust.”

Arthur nodded solemnly.  “Sex is one thing; it’s easy.  Anyone can do that.  But it’s not very good without the rest of it.  This, what we’re doing—is not just sex.”

“I know,” Martin said.  “I may not have had sex before.  But I can tell the difference.”

A sweet smile curled at the corner of Arthur’s mouth.  “Good,” he said.  “Good.”


	4. Bravo

“This is brilliant,” Arthur said.  “Did you know that Murmansk is the biggest city north of the Arctic Circle?”

“We do now,” Douglas replied.  He was sprawled in his seat, as much as it was possible to sprawl in one of the high-backed pilot’s seats, and looked extraordinarily bored.  It was his default expression every time they flew over Russia.

“The port of Murmansk,” Arthur read from his guidebook, “remains ice-free year round due to the warm North Atlantic Current.  It is an important fishing and shipping destination and is home port to Atomflot, the world’s only fleet of nuclear-powered icebreakers.  Wow!  Do you think we’ll get to see them?”

“Feel free,” Douglas said.  “I will be sitting by the fire, wrapped in two or three quilts, and clutching a cup of hot coffee.”

“Why?” Arthur asked.

“What does your book say about the climate?” Martin put in.

“Let me see.”  Arthur flipped a few pages.  “Murmansk has a subarctic climate, with long cold winters.  In the city, freezing temperatures below zero are routinely experienced from October through May.”  He paused thoughtfully.  “Oh.  It’s February.”

“Well spotted,” Douglas said.

“It’s going to be cold, isn’t it?”

“Very, _very_ cold,” Martin replied.  “Maybe we could save the sight-seeing for another trip.”

“There could be polar bears!” Arthur said, bouncing a little on his toes.

“Perhaps not within the city limits,” Douglas said.  “I believe even Russia tends to frown on large carnivorous beasts roaming the streets.”

“Still,” Arthur said, undaunted.  “There _could_ be.”

There was quiet for a bit, except for the hum of the engines.  Arthur peered outside as if he might be able to spot polar bears on the white expanse of ground thirty thousand feet below.  After a while, he sank into the jump seat.  The flight deck was crowded and Arthur had long legs; his knee pressed against the side of Martin’s thigh.  Martin glanced at it, and then up at Arthur with a small smile.

“Are you planning to spend the whole flight with us?” Douglas asked.  “Hadn’t you better see to the passengers?”

“Yes, who _are_ the passengers, anyway?” Martin added.  “I mean, I know their names, but who takes a honeymoon trip to Murmansk in February?”

“Oh, they were telling me about that,” Arthur replied.  “Apparently they met here, ice fishing.  They both wound up snowed in, stuck in a little cabin for a two weeks, and by the time they got out, they’d fallen in love.  So now they’ve come back to spend their honeymoon in the same cabin.”

“Mmm,” Douglas said.  “Charming.  One hopes no important parts get frostbitten.”

“I’m sure they’ll manage to keep warm,” Martin observed dryly.  The others looked at him.  Douglas raised his eyebrows; Arthur just grinned.  “What?” Martin asked.  “They will.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m up here,” Arthur said.  “They seemed like they wanted to, um… get a head start.”

Martin and Douglas both made dismayed faces.  “On Gertie?” Douglas asked.  “Come on, we have to eat here.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Arthur said.  “They barely noticed I was there anyway; I just wanted to give them some privacy.”

“Well get right back in there and interrupt them,” Douglas replied.  “This is not a flying hotel.”

“Aww,” Arthur said, disappointed.  “But what about the mile high club?”

“Overrated,” Douglas said.

“Oh, and you would know?” Martin asked. 

Douglas said nothing, just smirked at him.

“Of course you would,” Martin muttered.

“No, he’s right, it is kind of overrated,” Arthur mused. 

They both turned slowly in their chairs to look at Arthur.  He blinked, and shrugged.  “What?  My dad is a pilot too, you know.  I’ve been on a lot of planes.”  With that, he turned and sauntered off, humming something off-key and loud to let the passengers know he was coming.

“Well,” Douglas said after a long stretch of silence. 

“Yes,” Martin said. 

“Full of surprises, isn’t he?”

Martin pressed his lips together to hide a smile.  “You have no idea.”

*

They bundled up and waited outside the airport for a shuttle to take them to the hotel.  It was painfully cold; Martin could feel his ears and nose tingle and begin to go numb almost immediately.  He curled his toes inside his shoes, trying to keep them moving.  The shoes were too thin and his winter coat was threadbare.  His gloves were worn smooth from moving jobs and designed for mobility rather than warmth.  He hunched his shoulders, shoved his hands in his pockets, and huddled as close as he could to the side of the building. 

The sky was clear, but the wind was brutal and swept swirls of snow at them from the drifts piled all around.  There had been a white veil across the runway when they came in, and buffets of wind rocking them; Martin was rather proud he’d managed to land in it.  He’d even caught Douglas giving an approving sort of nod.

The road with the taxis, airport shuttles, and other car services was between the airport terminal and the parking garage, leaving them in a kind of tunnel between two tall, dull, industrial grey buildings.  The wind channeled down the centre, whistling around them and sneaking frozen fingers around the edges of Martin’s collar and ankles.  He shivered, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

“You all right, Skip?”

Martin nodded, giving Arthur a thin-lipped smile. 

“Are you sure?  You’ve gone a kind of blue colour.”

“Bit cold,” Martin admitted.  He eyed Arthur; the man was buried inside an enormous floor length coat and wore a bright red knit cap with a tufted ball at the top.  Douglas, on the other side of him, wore something understated and elegant, as usual.  His cheeks were reddish and he had his arms crossed but otherwise didn’t look unduly chilled.

“Oh,” Arthur said. “Here.”  Before Martin could protest, Arthur swung his coat open, wrapped it around Martin, and closed it behind him, tucking Martin in against his chest.  He was gloriously warm.  Martin burrowed into the hollow of his neck, relishing the soft scarf against the frozen tip of his nose, and sighed in relief.  He could feel tense muscles unknotting as the heat filtered in, reviving him.

“You _are_ cold,” Arthur murmured, rubbing his back and arms through the coat.  “I think it’s because you’re so thin.  You haven’t got proper insulation.”

“Mmm,” Martin said, shrugging.  Douglas was probably staring at him by now; he’d surely catch some mocking for it later but it felt too good to stop.  He bent down a little, trying to get his ears covered up.  His face was tucked in against Arthur’s thick woolen scarf and he couldn’t see, but he didn’t need to.  Arthur would tell him when it was time to get on the shuttle.  He could just stand here, mostly hidden in the coat, protected.

When the shuttle came a few minutes later, he pulled away reluctantly.  The frigid air was a slap and he hurried onto the heated shuttle.  They crowded in, several other travelers coming in after them.  Martin wound up jammed between Arthur and Douglas with his small overnight bag pressed up against his knees.  Two women to their right were having a loud conversation in Russian, and the shuttle had a rumbling diesel engine even noisier than his van. 

Amidst the rustle and press of people, Martin slipped his hand over and tucked it around Arthur’s, lacing their fingers.  It was surreptitious, to be sure; carefully angled to not be obvious, but he still felt brave for having done it.  Arthur looked at him, startled, and Martin gave his fingers a squeeze.  A slow, shiningly happy grin spread across Arthur’s face.

“Thanks for warming me up,” Martin murmured.

Arthur nodded.  His eyes gleamed and the flush in his cheeks was more than just the cold.

Douglas cleared his throat pointedly.  “You two are worse than the honeymooners.”

“Shush,” Martin said.  He ducked his head, but he didn’t let go of Arthur’s hand.

*

There were only two rooms reserved for them at the hotel.  “Not surprising,” Douglas said.  “Carolyn certainly isn’t going to pay for three rooms when she knows… well.  What she knows.”

“Yes, all right,” Martin muttered, hurrying to the lifts.  He was inwardly pleased, though; it was probably only Carolyn’s miserly ways but it felt like tacit approval.  They parted in the hallway, Douglas wishing them a good evening with entirely too much insinuation in his voice. 

The hotel room was tiny and chilly, and overlooked a street blanketed heavily with snow.  The view was serene and silent, each streetlight surrounded by a foggy halo and the snow casting glitters of iridescent reflected light.  Martin walked over, looking down at the frozen world.  He heard the hum as Arthur turned up the room heater, and then Arthur came up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist.  He rested his chin on Martin’s shoulder and kissed him on the cheek.

“Hi,” Arthur said softly.

Martin smiled.  “Hi.”

“Are you warm enough?”

“Getting there.”

They stood for a while as the room grew warmer.  It had been a long day with an early start, and the bitter cold sapped his energy quickly, but Martin didn’t feel tired.  He was conscious of a quiet anticipation tingling over his skin.  He’d done well today; flew well, landed well, and made Arthur happy by being close to him in public.  He felt, for the first time in ages, _proud_ of himself.  And he felt certain there were more good things to come.

Arthur’s arms were still around his middle.  Martin took one and turned it so Arthur’s hand wrapped his wrist.  Then he bumped his other wrist against Arthur’s free hand.  He smiled when he felt both held snugly.  “Oh,” Arthur murmured.  “Is that what you want?”

Martin nodded.  “Not, um… not ropes or anything.  Just your hands.”

“Good,” Arthur said.  His voice had gone low, purring.  Martin felt his eyes droop, half-lidded and dazed, and he leaned back against Arthur’s chest.  “Very good.  I like that you ask for what you want, that’s perfect.  You were so good today.”

“Mmm,” Martin sighed, and rubbed his cheek against Arthur’s shoulder. 

“Thank you for letting me keep you warm earlier,” Arthur said. 

“Should be thanking _you_ for that.”

Arthur shook his head.  “No, it’s… I don’t know if I can explain it properly, but when I get to take care of you—when I do something that makes you feel better and I know you’re happy because of _me_ —it just feels really, really good.  And I know it was hard for you to do that where people could see.  Where Douglas could see.”

“Not that hard,” Martin replied.  “Not that hard at all.  I think I made it scarier in my head than it actually is.”

“I do that sometimes,” Arthur said.  “For a long time, I was afraid to tell you how much I like you.  I thought you’d laugh.  You’d call me stupid old Arthur and tell me to stop bothering you.” 

“No,” Martin replied quietly.  “I never would.”

Arthur said nothing, but Martin could hear him swallow.  A soft kiss landed on the side of his neck and Arthur’s hands went tight on his wrists.  He took a long, carefully measured breath and then turned them, steering Martin toward the bed.

He stripped Martin out of his outer layers, his coat and gloves and shoes, and then the jacket of his pilot’s uniform.  The shirt followed, one button at a time, Arthur quiet and intent on his work.  Martin sat pliant, content to let Arthur move him as he chose.  He sank back on the bed, legs dangling over the end, when Arthur pushed on his shoulder.  He closed his eyes, aware of Arthur removing his socks and trousers.  Left only in pants and a threadbare undershirt, he was grateful for the warm air in the room.

“Come on,” Arthur said, tugging him up toward the head of the bed.  Martin wriggled along obediently.  The bed had a metal rail frame, with several vertical slats at the head.  Arthur lifted each of Martin’s hands, wrapped the fingers around a slat, and gave them a little pat.  “Leave them there,” he said.

Martin nodded.  He watched as Arthur got off the bed and removed his own clothes, leaving only his underwear.  Batman today.  He grinned and Arthur grinned back. 

Arthur crawled up the bed, hands and knees on either side of Martin’s slim frame, and kissed him.  It was strange to kiss Arthur without holding him; his arms were still over his head, hands firm on the rails.  Martin felt pinned by that one point of contact between them and he squirmed, hooking his feet round the backs of Arthur’s knees.  He wanted more.

“Shh,” Arthur murmured against his lips.  He pulled back enough to meet Martin’s eyes.  “I need to get something for us, from my bag.  Something new.  I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Okay,” Martin said.  He craned his neck, watching Arthur rummage through his bag.  Excitement and curiosity sparked over his skin, coiling in his belly.  It was always good when Arthur had something new for him.

He caught a flicker of movement between bag and hand—something small, wadded, and black—and then Arthur approached with one hand hidden behind his back.  He was bouncing a little with each step, eyes shining and face flushed with colour, as eager as Martin had ever seen him.  “What is it?” he asked.

“I think you’ll like this,” Arthur replied.  “But it’s okay if you don’t.  If it makes you feel strange or uncomfortable, you have to tell me right away.  Don’t pretend to be fine if you’re not.  That’s really important, all right?”

Beginning to be nervous, Martin gave a small nod.

Arthur leaned in and stroked his cheek, cupping his face in one warm, broad hand.  He pressed a soft kiss to the centre of his forehead.  “I’d like you to wear this,” he said, and from behind his back he brought out velvet sleep mask.  Martin stared at it, and then up at Arthur.  Perhaps seeing the question on his face, Arthur explained, “There are two reasons.  When you can’t see, you focus more on your other senses.  I learned that in a documentary once.  And it also means you have to trust the person guiding you more.”

“Oh,” Martin said.  He’d closed his eyes with Arthur before, of course, but this was a little different.  A _lot_ different.  It was one thing to know he could open his eyes at any time, and something else entirely to know he was effectively blind. 

“You don’t have to,” Arthur said.  He curled up beside Martin, putting a hand on his chest and looking at him earnestly.  “I mean that.  Not everyone likes this and if you don’t, it is really okay.  There are a lot of other fun things we can do.”

“I’d like to try it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Martin said.  “It’ll be like getting my instrument rating.  Flying when you can’t see is scary but it’s also exhilarating.”

Arthur beamed.  “Righto,” he said.  “Lift up a bit.”  He slipped the mask over Martin’s face, arranging the elastic band so it didn’t pull his hair.  Then he arranged the edges, making sure it was even over his nose and flat against his face.  Martin blinked behind the mask; he could feel it brush against the tips of his eyelashes and there was a faint grey tinge of light around the edges but he could see nothing.

“Good?” Arthur asked.

Martin nodded.  “Stay with me,” he said.  “Don’t go.”

Arthur held him, arms around his waist and chest, one leg thrown over his.  Martin’s arms were still over his head and Arthur kissed up one side and down the other.  He lingered over the tender dip inside each elbow and the thin skin of each wrist.  Then he pulled Martin’s hands down, pinning them at his sides.

Arthur’s fingertips trailed down the centre of his chest, warm through the thin material of his undershirt, and then dipped beneath the fabric at his waist.  Up again, spread wide over his belly, a slow stroking just firm enough not to tickle.  He rubbed with his knuckles over Martin’s sternum, hard enough to loosen the slim bands of muscle over his ribs.  Martin felt the pressure more when he inhaled and it was an odd sense of compression and weight.  Here in the dark, listening to Arthur breathing and feeling the strong press of his hand, he felt firmly anchored in this one moment, held.

Hands tugged at him, arranging his limbs, and Martin was unresisting.  He felt a whisk of cooler air as the shirt came off.  Then Arthur again, solid and warm at his side.  “Now feel,” Arthur whispered in his ear, closer than he’d realised.  “I’m going to take your hand and put it on me.  I want you to feel your way around.  Learn me without looking.”

Martin turned on his side when Arthur pulled him that way, and he felt a pillow propped under his cheek.  Then his right hand was lifted, stretched, and placed on warm skin.  “Only that hand,” Arthur warned him.  “Tell me where you are.”

“Um,” Martin said.  He splayed his fingers out, thinking of where Arthur’s voice had come from and the shape of what he touched.  Firm on one side, with a faint ridge of bone under the muscle.  Soft on the other, soft enough to dimple under his fingertips.  Mostly smooth with a few stray hairs tickling his palm.  “Your waist and stomach?  Right at the bottom of your ribs.”

“Good,” Arthur said.  “Perfect.  Now move.  Think about what you’re touching, and picture it.” 

He did, sliding down first, until he felt the curve of Arthur’s hip under his fingers.  He traced with his fingertips, thinking of the way it looked.  The skin there always looked vulnerable, sensitive at the inner curve of the hip, stretched thin.  He thought of the way Arthur reacted when he was kissed and licked there, the way he shifted his hips eagerly and made that greedy whine in the back of his throat.  Martin licked his lips and rubbed with the ball of his thumb, following the line until he ran into the waistband of Arthur’s pants.

Across now, his soft belly, with a sparse trail of hair leading down into his groin.  Martin gathered the texture of it up and found the dent of his belly button.  He thought of the way Arthur had squirmed when he licked there, the first time he’d taken him in his mouth.  The way he’d quivered and held his fists at his sides, trying to stay in control. 

Up, a broad sweep over his chest, finding the line where his belly turned into the firmer shape of bone.  He bumped over each rib.  Arthur was not scrawny; his ribs were barely visible in the right light and barely perceptible to Martin’s searching fingers.  The muscle layered over them shifted and pulled as Arthur breathed.  Martin could feel each rise and fall of his chest.

He sought out Arthur’s heartbeat and pressed his palm to it, feeling the thrum rise up through bone and muscle and skin, passing into him.  It was fast, he thought; faster than simply lying there could account for.  Suddenly curious, he swept his hand back down, skating over Arthur’s belly and pants, and cupped him through the fabric.  Arthur caught his breath and twitched under his touch, half-hard.

Martin grinned.  He rubbed through the cloth, finding the head and feeling around it.  He walked his fingers up and down until he found the opening in the pants and slipped them inside.  Arthur was hot here, a pocket of warm, humid air trapped between cloth and skin.  Martin focused on the sound of his breathing.  He listened for the little catch and hitch when he thumbed over the head, spreading the bead of moisture that welled up. 

He moved carefully, exploring, down the rapidly hardening length and around the base.  He lifted each of Arthur’s balls and rolled them in his palm, gauging the soft weight.  There was something hypnotic and soothing about it, lying in the dark, listening to their breathing and inhaling the familiar scent rising off Arthur’s skin. 

Martin slid his hand back up and gave a little twist around the head, rubbing the foreskin over the core, and stroked the ball of his thumb back and forth over the tip.  He felt Arthur develop a forced stillness, holding himself carefully in check.  He imagined the look on his face; that half-lidded wanting look, lips parted and shiny where he’d licked them, cheeks flushed with hectic patches of colour.  He rubbed a little harder just behind the head, tiny focused circles, and Arthur moaned.

He wanted to touch with his other hand, to press kisses on Arthur’s chest and nibble up the side of his throat.  He wanted to rest his head over Arthur’s heart and hear it pounding, listen to the ragged pace of his breathing and feel each rise and fall.  “Let me,” he said, started at how rough and low his voice came out.  “Let me touch you more.  I want to feel all of you.”

“Yes,” Arthur.  “ _Please._ Yes… nnnnn that’s good.”

Martin rolled, feeling his way with his left hand.  His right stayed busy in Arthur’s pants, stroking with the rhythm Arthur made in eager little tilts with his hips.  He found a broad curve of skin and followed it to Arthur’s shoulder, then across to his neck.  He rested his palm over the front of Arthur’s throat, feeling it bob as he swallowed.  He found the other man’s pulse there, rabbit-quick, and marveled for a moment at how very much Arthur must trust him.  Blindfolded, one hand on his cock and the other on his throat, and yet Arthur only whimpered and pleaded for more.

Leaning in, Martin kissed, landing on the backs of his knuckles so he got some of Arthur’s throat and some of his own hand.  He felt his way up the line of Arthur’s jaw, nuzzling the skin, aware of the fine prickle of stubble against his lips.  There was a spot just behind Arthur’s ear that always made him squirm and moan; Martin knew what it looked like but finding it blind meant trial and error. 

He left kisses everywhere, from the curve of his shoulder to the nape of his neck and up over the soft arch of his cheekbone.  He caught the lobe of one ear between his lips and flicked the tip of his tongue over it, smiling when Arthur shivered.  Then down, one tiny kiss at a time, barely moving as he felt the skin under his lips grow hot.  When he licked over one smooth patch Arthur cried out and his cock twitched in Martin’s hand—there.  Grinning, Martin kissed again, then sucked gently, laving the skin with broad licks. 

“Oh, oh god, mmmm wait,” Arthur panted.  His hips kept moving against Martin’s hand, though; frantic ragged little thrusts.  He showed no sign of stopping. 

Martin curled his hand a little tighter, conscious of the slick weight and heat, of the way Arthur had lost his rhythm and was rushing headlong for just a little more friction.  He added a faint scrape of his teeth and pressed his fingertips over Arthur’s thundering pulse.

Arthur made a sharp, broken sound and then there was a sudden rush of movement.  Martin felt strong hands on his wrists, yanking them back and there was spinning and a whoosh of air and cool blanket against his back and he was, for a moment, dizzy and lost.  He went still and quiet.  Arthur’s hands were still on his wrists, pinning them to the bed at his sides.  Arthur was still there.  It was all right.

“You,” Arthur murmured from very close, right over his head.  “You are _amazing._ I told myself I wasn’t going to let you finish me that way.  I wanted your mouth.  I _still_ want your mouth.  But I almost couldn’t stop.”

Martin said nothing.  Being pinned like this, pinned with Arthur’s strong hands on him, hearing the want and bare, tenuous edge of control in his voice and being unable to see any of it… it did too many things at once to him.  Trying to come up with words was impossible.  He felt stripped bare, laid open, helpless and confused and some part of him was sure he shouldn’t like it so much but he _did._  

“Shhh,” Arthur said, although Martin was silent.  “What do you need?”

Martin shook his head.  He had no idea.  Something.  He needed something but everything was piled in a big knotted cluster in his chest and he couldn’t describe any of it. 

“Okay.  All right.”  Arthur’s voice was soft; the dangerous timbre of frustrated arousal had eased back.  He lowered himself onto Martin, pressing them together head to toe.  He kissed Martin, a bare brush against his lips, very gentle.  “You’re doing so well,” Arthur whispered.  “So beautifully.  Do you know how you look in that mask?  With your pale skin and your mouth—god, you’ve got such a perfect mouth—and the way you go all still.  So good, Martin.”

That was it.  Something unraveled and he let out a long breath.  He started to kiss Arthur back, only now becoming aware that he was still hard, pressed between their bodies; that they both were.  Arthur’s hands were still on his wrists and he turned his own hands a little, testing the grip.  A strange, shivering satisfaction went through him when Arthur immediately tightened down, holding him in place.  He was kept, he was secure, he was held.

“Lovely,” Arthur purred, and nibbled on his throat.  “So very lovely.  We’re going to try something now.  You with me?”

“I’m with you,” Martin replied.  He turned his head, seeking the sound of Arthur’s voice.  “But…”

“Yes?”

“Sorry, I just…”

“Tell me,” Arthur said.  It was quiet, but there was no mistaking it for a request. 

“Hold me a little longer first?”

“Of course.” 

Then there was Arthur’s weight again, pressing him down into the mattress.  It made him work for every indrawn breath but it felt wonderful.  Martin soaked it up, letting himself feel every place where their skin touched.  He tucked his head into the hollow of Arthur’s neck and felt that quiet wash over his mind. 

“Good job,” Arthur told him.  “You did exactly the right thing, asking for what you wanted.  You should always tell me.”

“It’s silly,” Martin mumbled.

“No it isn’t,” Arthur replied firmly.  “It would be silly if you wanted something and didn’t say, and just sat there being unhappy because you didn’t have it.”

Martin thought about that.  Somewhere along the line he’d gotten the idea that he shouldn’t ask for things.  As a child you asked for things, sure—you whined and begged for things like a baby.  But as a man, you didn’t.  You got it for yourself, or you sucked it up and went without.  It took a minute to wrap his head around the possibility of a third option.

“All right?” Arthur asked.

“Yes,” Martin said, punctuating the word with a kiss to Arthur’s jaw.  “Yes, thank you.  Much better.  I want to try the new thing now, please.”

He couldn’t see Arthur’s delighted grin, but he could hear it in his voice.  “Brilliant!  Right, now I’m going to sit you up a bit.  Just move where I guide you.” 

Martin found himself nudged up until he was propped against a pile of pillows, his back curved and his head tilted forward.  Then there was a rustle of movement and the whisper of cloth over skin.  He cocked his head, curious; if he had to guess, he’d say Arthur had just removed his pants.  Next, there was warm weight to either side of his chest, under his arms, and he felt the bed move as Arthur knelt over him.

“You lie still,” Arthur said.  “Keep your hands down where they are.  Grab a handful of the blanket and hold on tight to keep them in place.”

Martin nodded and obeyed, twisting his fingers into the blanket.  It wasn’t quite as satisfying as having Arthur hold him down and he thought again about being tied up.  What might that be like?  That sensation of being pinned and helpless and secure, while Arthur still had both hands free to touch him however he liked… well.  Maybe next time. 

“Good,” Arthur said.  “Perfect.  Now you’re going to feel me touch your mouth.  Open up and let me in.  I’m going to be very careful; I won’t be rough or go too deep.  But if you need to stop, just lift up your hand and I’ll stop right away.  Okay?”

Martin nodded, licking his lips.  He could already feel the swell of excitement and anticipation rising in his chest.  He breathed in, wondering how close Arthur was to him.  Wondering if he’d be able to feel the heat radiating off his skin and smell the tang of pre-come. 

There was a touch to his cheek; Arthur’s hand, cradling him.  His thumb ran over his lips and Martin let him in, licking.  “Just like that,” Arthur murmured.  “Rest your head against the pillows.  I’ll do the work; you just relax your mouth and take me.”

There was a pause, in which Martin barely managed to not crane his neck eagerly, and then blunt pressure against his bottom lip.  He darted his tongue out and tasted the bitter-salt sharpness.  The texture was sleek velvet, smooth and decadent against his lips.  He leaned forward, wanting more, but Arthur moved with him.  He only had enough space to kiss and lick at the tip.

“Tease,” Martin muttered.

Arthur giggled and stroked his hair.  “Shh.  Be still.”

Relaxing his neck, Martin allowed his head to loll back.  He waited for Arthur to show him what was next. 

“Good,” Arthur said.  “Just like that, so good.”  He pressed a little closer, moving in a slow drag across Martin’s bottom lip.  “That mouth,” Arthur added in an undertone.  “Do you know how hard it is to look at you every day and not kiss you?”

Martin smiled.  “Give in to temptation more often,” he said, words muffled against the slippery head of Arthur’s cock.

The vibration made Arthur twitch and shudder.  “Oh,” he groaned, “I am trying to make this last and you are not making it easy.”

“Good,” Martin replied smugly.  He curled his tongue around the head and got his lips just over the tip when Arthur thrust in reflex.  He sucked, aware of a deep seated greed.  He wanted that weight against his tongue, that pressure filling up his mouth.  He wanted to hear Arthur whimper and cry out, to feel him lose control.   

One hand in his hair, Arthur angled his head and pushed in with a long, slow glide.  Martin hollowed his cheeks, pressing and curling his tongue over every bit he could reach.  He hummed eagerly and swallowed.  Arthur was as careful as he’d promised, but Martin could feel him quivering with effort. 

Martin’s hands tugged fretfully at the blanket, wanting to wrap around Arthur, to pull him in and touch him and feel him, but he kept them still.  There was something freeing about giving up control entirely.  He couldn’t use his hands, couldn’t move his head; he could only open up and let Arthur take what he wanted.  He used the slippery back of his tongue to rub over the head and stroke the foreskin on each shallow thrust and Arthur began to whimper.

Martin thought of how they must look—him lying there, hands at his sides, still and blindfolded, mouth stretched wide.  Arthur over him, straddling his chest, pressing into his mouth, flushed and panting for breath.  He’d be sweating, hair mussed and damp, lips parted, head thrown back in pleasure.  Martin could hear the eager little sounds he made, the hums of encouragement, the wet smack of lips on skin. 

“Oh, _nnnng_ , oh god,” Arthur mumbled.  “Just like that, just, please, little more, can you take a little more?”

Martin nodded, gratified when Arthur immediately slid deeper.  He consciously relaxed, breathing through his nose and swallowing again and again to counter the faint twinge of gag reflex.  He could feel Arthur shaking, and he seemed to grow thicker, heavier against Martin’s tongue.  He lapped as hard as he could, pressing and rubbing with the tip of his tongue.

“Ah close, very, um… oh Martin oh oh yes… like that oh please don’t stop.”  Arthur shuddered and whined low in his throat, each breath coming out in a choked moan.  “Can, can I… in your mouth?  Can I?  Oh god, tell me quick, I can’t wait much longer.”

Martin nodded again and sucked harder, taking as much as he could.  He heard Arthur cry out and then there was a sudden rush of liquid heat.  Most of it hit the back of his throat and went down; he’d never stopped swallowing.  He kept going, gentling his mouth, lapping with soft little licks around the head.  Arthur twitched and shivered, oversensitive, and finally pulled away.  Martin’s mouth felt oddly empty with him gone; he licked his lips.

He was still trying to make peace with the idea of what he’d just swallowed when Arthur curled around him, pulling him into a tight hug.  Martin went easily, putting his arms around Arthur when he felt the other man trembling.  Arthur was whispering something against his skin, kissing his shoulder and neck and whispering.

“What?” Martin asked.

“Thank you, thank you,” Arthur said, and squeezed him tighter.  “Thank you.”

Not sure how to respond, Martin just stroked his back and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“I mean it,” Arthur said.  “I don’t think you realise how amazing that was.”

“I have done it for you before,” Martin pointed out.

“Not like that.  Blindfolded, not using your hands, letting me do everythingand just… just _giving_ like that.  It’s not easy to do.  The way you did it so beautifully, and on the first try, is incredible.”

“Oh,” Martin said quietly.  “Really?”

“Really.”  Arthur kissed him again, delicate brushes over his cheeks, out to the tip of his nose, and on the centre of his forehead.  Then a kiss to his mouth, deeper, humming in pleasure at the taste.  “Remarkable,” he said between kisses.  “Brave and brilliant and, and…”

“Bravo?” Martin offered, smiling.

Arthur laughed.  “Exactly.”  He slid down, pressing more kisses to Martin’s chest and belly, leaving a trail of sensation.  “And now,” he said, words vibrating against Martin’s hip, “I believe it is your turn.”

“Yes,” Martin said.  He reached down to tug at the waistband of his pants and Arthur caught his hand, stilling it.  Martin made a protesting sound.

“Hush,” Arthur said.  “I’ll take care of you.  Now, do you want the blindfold off?”

Martin didn’t have to think about it.  “No,” he said.  “Leave it on.”


	5. Sunshine

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking.  I just want to welcome you to Lima, Peru.  It’s a beautiful day, the temperature is twenty-two degrees, and local time is four-seventeen in the afternoon.  We should be at the gate in just a few minutes, so please remain seated until we come to a full stop and I turn off the seatbelt sign, thank you.”

Martin clicked the intercom off and leaned back in his seat.  “By the way, great landing, Douglas.”

“Wasn’t it, though,” Douglas replied.  “You’re chipper today.”

“Mmm.  Guess it’s nice to see a bit of sunshine.  Fitton is terribly dreary in February.”

“Yes, which is certainly a marked difference from the bright and bustling metropolis it is most of the time,” Douglas said dryly.

Martin grinned at him.   “So are you picking anything up here?  I did notice there are twenty jars of rhubarb chutney which mysteriously appeared in the flight deck locker.”

“Oh, I may run into an old friend, and he may have a gift or two for me,” Douglas said. 

“Right,” Martin said.  He glanced over his shoulder at the flight deck door, then turned to face front again.  Lima was a big city and the airport was busy; there were at least four planes lined up in front of them like patient mastodons, lumbering forward toward the terminal.  He tapped his thumbs on the yoke and gave a little sigh.

“Waiting for something?”

“Hmm?  Oh, nothing,” Martin said.  “Just thought Arthur might come bounding in any moment and need another explanation for why it’s summer here when it’s still winter back home.”

“Ah yes, the infamous equator discussion,” Douglas said.  “I think it sank in last time when we used an orange as the sun to demonstrate.”

“Maybe.”  Martin glanced back again.  “He’s probably busy with the passengers, actually.  Full load today and you know the stag parties are always a bit rowdy.”

“True,” Douglas agreed.  “You remember that lot we took to Madrid a few months back?”

“Oh god, the food fight,” Martin muttered.  “Took weeks before the cabin stopped smelling of gravy.”

 Douglas chuckled, shaking his head.  “And then Arthur came up on the flight deck, grinning like a loon, positively _dripping_ with the stuff.  He was convinced it was the best flight ever.”

“Well, that’s Arthur,” Martin replied.  “ _Everything_ is the best thing ever.  He’s a perpetual happiness machine.”

“Mmm.  And it seems to be catching.”

Martin glanced at him.  “What does that mean?”

“Just that you’ve been in a very pleasant frame of mind lately.  If I’d known regular sex was all you needed I would have set you up much sooner.”

_“Douglas,”_ Martin hissed, colouring.  “Stop that.”

“What?  I’m congratulating you on,” he leered meaningfully, “ _loosening up.”_

“It’s not… that isn’t…”  Martin scowled.  “I mean it, stop.  You’re making it sound… I don’t know.  It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

“It’s not just about that,” Martin said.  “There’s more.”

Douglas gave a longsuffering sigh.  “I know, Martin.  I am, as I believe I have said, happy for you.  And if it makes you easier to get along with, which it has, then I’m all for it.  However, since I am the person who actually pushed you two together in the first place, I reserve the right to a little light teasing whenever I so choose.”

“Well, all right,” Martin said, mollified.  “Fair enough.  Have I really been different?”

“You both have,” Douglas said.  “Although I wouldn’t have said Arthur could actually _get_ any more cheerful, he apparently can.”

“Not today though,” Martin mused, with another glance toward the galley.

“No?”

“He seems quiet today.  Doesn’t he?  We’ve barely seen him this flight.”

“Well, it is, as you said, a full flight,” Douglas pointed out.

“I suppose.” 

“And no help from Carolyn; she refuses to come on the stag party flights ever since the food fight.”

“Right.”  Martin frowned and bit absently at a thumbnail.  “But he was quiet before the flight too.  Didn’t you think so?”

“I fear you are making the mistake of assuming I spend my free time watching his every move.”

“Yes, all right,” Martin said.  “I’m just saying something’s off.”

“Well, you could spend the next twenty minutes or so worrying about it or, and this is a novel idea, you _could_ just ask him.”

Martin pressed his lips into a thin line.  “Tell me, is it really necessary for you to inject a witty rejoinder into every single sentence?  Will you go into some kind of withdrawal if you refrain from sarcasm for even a few minutes?”

“You know, I’m not actually sure,” Douglas said.  “I’ve never tried it long enough to find out.”

“I’ve noticed,” Martin replied.  He clicked on the galley intercom.  “Arthur?  Would you come in here a moment please?”

There was a pause, and then Arthur poked his head through the flight deck door.  “Hello, chaps,” he said.  “Get you something?”

“Come sit down,” Martin said, gesturing to the jump seat.  “We’ve barely seen you all day.”

“Right.  Sorry, really quite busy,” Arthur said.  He glanced back toward the cabin.  “So if you don’t need anything…”

“Arthur, are you all right?” Martin asked.

Arthur blinked at him, startled.  His face was unguarded for a moment, missing that fixed smile he usually used on long passenger flights, and Martin could see lines of strain around his eyes and bruised looking circles beneath them.  “Yeah,” Arthur said.  “Fine.”

Martin exchanged a look with Douglas, who raised an eyebrow.  “Are you sure?” Douglas asked.

“Yep,” Arthur said.  Behind him, they could hear the faint _bing_ of the call button.  “Sorry, that’s me, got to go.”  He slipped away before they could say anything else, shutting the door behind him.

“See?” Martin said, spreading his hands.

“Could just be a difficult flight.”

“Douglas, that man put up with four hours of having _gravy_ flung at him and thought it was brilliant.  It takes more than rowdy passengers to bring him down.”

“Well, not to worry,” Douglas said.  “He’ll bounce back, whatever it is.  He always does.”

Martin frowned.  As soon as they got to the hotel, he decided, he’d figure this out.

*

It was about five in the evening local time when they finished at the airport, which made it around eleven at night back home.  Between that, the twelve hour flight, and the early morning moving job he’d had before the flight, Martin could only blink blearily at the bright midsummer sunshine.  The mild breeze lifted his hair off his forehead, carrying the damp salt tang of the Pacific with it.  It was probably sleeting in Fitton.  Martin did his best to appreciate the weather as the three of them trundled in a sleepy line from the parking lot to the hotel lobby.

Two rooms again, which Douglas kindly refrained from commenting on.  They were tiny and had no view to speak of, but the windows actually opened.  Arthur crossed the room and opened theirs as far as they would go, and then stood there, breathing in the warm air.  Martin stood beside him, watching his profile.  Arthur had his eyes closed, lashes a dark sweep on pale cheeks.  In the golden afternoon light he looked very young.

“Arthur?”

“Hello,” Arthur said, offering him a wan smile. 

“What’s wrong?”

Arthur shrugged.  “Nothing, really.  It’s not important.”

Martin pressed two fingertips to his cheek, turning his head until their eyes met.  He left his hand there, stroking the line of Arthur’s jaw.  “Hey,” he said softly.  “Please tell me?”

Arthur’s lip wobbled and he bit it hard; he looked for a moment as if he might actually burst into tears but then he took a deep breath and his expression smoothed out.  “Oh, it’s just my dad.”

“What about him?”

He turned away from the windows and sat on the end of the bed.  He began untying his shoes, staring down at them.  “It used to be that he only called me about once a year,” he began.  “On November twelve, to try and buy Gertie back from Mum.”

“Right,” Martin said.  He sat down beside Arthur and put a hand in the centre of his back.  He felt it rise and fall as Arthur sighed.

“But then, ever since we stole his engine in St. Petersburg…”

“We didn’t steal it,” Martin said.  “He tried to steal our plane!  And he traded that engine to us.”

“He doesn’t quite see it that way,” Arthur replied.  “And every so often he calls to have a bit of a shout about it.  He tried calling Mum at first, but she just laughed and said how much we were enjoying the engine and if he ever felt like giving us any other expensive aeroplane bits he was welcome to it.  So he started calling me instead.”

“If he’s harassing you…”

“Nothing like that,” Arthur said.  “He only calls sometimes.  If he’s had a bit to drink, usually.  He says some things, and I listen, and he gets tired of shouting after a while and stops.  It doesn’t bother me that much.  It bothers Mum a lot more when he talks to her so I don’t mind letting him talk to me instead.”

“I thought you said she just laughed at him?”

“Well yeah, while they’re talking,” Arthur replied.  “She pretends not to care.  But she spends the rest of the day frowning and muttering about him.”

“I see.”

Arthur nodded.  “So anyway, he called me again last night.  It was after I got home from our dinner, so it was pretty late.”

“Right, I remember,” Martin said. 

“So he asked me why I hadn’t been answering my phone, because he’d been trying to call me for hours.  And I said I’d had it turned off because I was on a date and didn’t want to be interrupted.  And he asked me what her name was.  And I wasn’t thinking, I guess.  You know I’m no good at lying.  And so I just said his name is Martin.”

Martin winced.  “Oh.”

“Yeah.  And there was… there was this pause.”  Arthur knotted his fingers together in his lap; Martin covered them with his own hand, rubbing the tension out.  “You know when you’re watching a match, and one of the players gets knocked down, and everyone in the audience gets all quiet and waits to see if they’re going to get up or if they’re really hurt?  A pause like that, where everyone is kind of holding their breath.”

“And then what?”

Arthur took a deep, unsteady breath.  “Then he said… oh, he said a _lot_ of things.  I let him go for a while because usually he sort of runs out of steam and gets tired of shouting… but he didn’t get tired.  I listened until I couldn’t anymore and then I hung up.”

“Oh, Arthur.”  Martin slipped an arm around his waist and tugged him close.  Arthur turned, resting his cheek against Martin’s shoulder.  One hand came up and fisted in the material of Martin’s shirt.  He took long, measured breaths, eyes squeezed shut tight.   

“I’m not going to listen to him though,” Arthur said.  His voice shook, but his jaw had a stubborn set.  “He’s wrong.”

“Of course he is,” Martin replied. 

“It doesn’t matter what he says.  I’m keeping you.”  Arthur said the words like he expected an argument.

Martin cupped his face in one hand, stroking the curve of his cheek with a soft brush of his thumb.  Arthur blinked at him.  With his wide, damp eyes, his snub up-tilted nose, and his quivering chin, he looked for a moment like a little boy trying to be brave.  Then he sniffed, and smiled, and he was Arthur again, not a child at all; just a man who’d had a very long day and was ready for it to stop.

“Yes,” Martin said.  “You’re keeping me.”

Arthur nodded and leaned in, pulling Martin into a kiss that started out raw and turned gentle.  Martin could feel Arthur’s breathing catch into little hitches and stroked his back, kissing him slowly, rocking them back and forth on the bed.  He feathered kisses out to the sides, dropping fluttering touches on the corners of Arthur’s mouth and across his cheeks.  He nuzzled the line of Arthur’s jaw, feeling the rough rasp of stubble against his lips.  Martin kissed him until his breathing steadied and he let out a long, shuddery sigh.

When he pulled back, Arthur looked wrung out, but calmer.  He gave Martin a faint smile.  “Would you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“There’s something I want to try.  I don’t do it very often; I like it but it’s sort of… intense?  It’s hard to explain.  But when I do it, I stop thinking about everything else.”

“What is it?” Martin asked.

Arthur hesitated; he bit his lip and darted a quick glance toward his overnight bag.  “I brought some supplies.  I was hoping you’d say yes.”

Martin watched him cross the room and rummage around in the bag.  Last time it had been a sleep mask that doubled as a blindfold; maybe this time it would be ropes?  Or maybe one of those vibrating toys one could find on the internet.  Not that he’d been curiously looking lately, or anything.  Not that he’d been both amazed and overwhelmed by the sheer dizzying variety.

When Arthur turned back, though, whatever it was fit in the palm of his hand.  He sat back down beside Martin and opened his fingers, revealing a small tube of lubricant.  Martin looked at it, then at Arthur.  He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

“It’s not what you think,” Arthur said.  “I mean… well, it sort of is.  But this is for me.”

Martin’s eyes widened.  “You’re… you want me to…”

“Your hand,” Arthur said.  “Just your fingers, one or two at the most.  I’ll talk you through it.”

“Oh.”  Martin looked down at his hand, considering it.  “And that feels good?”

“It’s brilliant,” Arthur replied.  “You’ve never tried it?  Not even by yourself?”

“No,” Martin said.  “I mean, I’ve heard of it.  I understand the… you know, the mechanics.  I just didn’t think it was for me.”

“It doesn’t have to be.  Not all men like it and maybe you’re one of the people who don’t.  That’s okay, I like it a lot.  So you can do this for me and I can do something else nice for you.”

Arthur had a knack, Martin thought, for making things very simple.  “Okay,” he said.  “How do we start?”

“Lie down,” Arthur said, and it was like he’d flipped a switch; his voice went low and self-assured and he seemed to grow, effortlessly becoming the centre of the room.  “I’m going to undress you, and then you’re going to do the same for me.”

Martin nodded and hurried to obey, scooting up the bed.  Arthur settled beside him, lying on his side so they faced each other.  He curled close, until their foreheads touched and they were breathing the same warm pocket of air.  He trailed his fingers over Martin’s hair and down the back of his neck in a steady, hypnotic stroke.  Martin felt the brief spate of nerves settle as he focused on matching Arthur’s slow, long breaths. 

They didn’t speak.  Arthur undid the buttons of his shirt, and then spread his arms, giving Martin room to follow suit.  He pushed the shirt off Martin’s shoulders, caressing the uncovered skin, and kissed him on the neck.  Then Martin did the same for him.  It was like a dance, each step made and mirrored.  That sense of blanketing white calm descended over Martin, brought on by the simple, deliberate movements and the shared quiet.  He knew exactly what to do and when to do it, because Arthur showed him each time.  He didn’t have to worry.  He only had to follow along.

By the time they were naked, Martin had fallen into a kind of daze, eyes half-lidded and skin tingling with arousal.  Arthur pulled him close, pressing them together from head to toe, and he moaned softly at the pressure.  His hips nudged forward in instinctive response.  Arthur’s hands went tight on his waist.

“Mmmm I, um…”  Arthur made an eager sound, rubbing up against his belly.  “I don’t think I’m going to last very long tonight.  I always have to hold back when we’re together, to… oh, oh that’s nice… to wait as long as I can.  But I can’t right now.”

Martin held him closer and kissed the bare curve of his shoulder.  “That’s good.  I like the way you sound when you get close, and the way you move.”

Arthur gave him a wicked grin.  “You didn’t even blush when you said that.  I think I’m a bad influence.”

“Right,” Martin laughed, “that’s exactly what you are.”

Arthur kissed him, drawing his bottom lip out and nibbling on it.  “Put your hand on me,” he murmured in Martin’s ear. 

Martin did, curling his fingers around Arthur and rubbing him just behind the head, the way he liked.  Arthur whimpered and pushed up into his hand.  His teeth scraped Martin’s shoulder, and then he sucked a mark into the spot just over his collarbone.  There was something sharp and hard-edged in his touch, something that made Martin refrain from teasing.  He didn’t think Arthur could take that tonight.

He made his hand snug and gave a little twist, licking a stripe up Arthur’s throat in counterpoint.  Arthur shuddered, clinging to Martin, arms tight around him.  “Quick,” he said.  “Get the lube and I’ll show you what to do.  Oh, _mmm_ , hurry.”

“Right,” Martin said, groping around with his spare hand.  He stumbled across the little tube tucked under a fold of the blanket and worked it out.  He flipped the top open and got a bit on his palm, then rubbed both hands together to warm it.  Arthur made a protesting sound at the lack of contact.  He tugged Martin close again, grinding up against the hollow of his hip. 

“Shh,” Martin said.  He got his slippery hand around him again, and Arthur squirmed.  He bit at Martin’s shoulder, sharply enough to sting, and then soothed the place with a long kiss. 

“You, nnnng, oh come here,” Arthur said, rolling onto his back.  He pulled Martin with him, one leg hooked behind his knees.  He grabbed Martin by the wrist, taking his hand away, and scrabbled for the lube.  “Where’d, oh, oh you have to go faster, I mean it,” he babbled. 

Martin grinned, aware of a peculiar soaring rush that came with seeing Arthur so undone.  He twisted easily out of Arthur’s grasp and stroked him again, just to watch him arch his back and toss his head on the pillows.

“Oh god, stop,” Arthur groaned, and Martin snatched his hand away, startled.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“Shh, no,” Arthur interrupted.  “I’m just too close and I want to feel you before this is over.”

Martin nodded, pressing up against Arthur’s side.  He let Arthur take his hand and coat two of his fingers liberally with the lube.  “What next?”

Arthur parted his legs and planted his feet on the bed, bending his knees.  “Do you remember how I touched you after the bath?  What I did with my tongue?”

“I could hardly forget,” Martin muttered.

Arthur managed a distracted smile.  His hips were still shifting minutely and his cock bobbed against his stomach, flushed dark red.  “Right, mmm, do that with your fingertips.  Circle in, nice and slow.  Press with just one to begin with.”

Martin slid his hand back, rubbing behind Arthur’s balls.  It was different with lube.  His fingers stroked easily over the skin, soft and smooth.  He pressed back further, tentatively, aware of how hot Arthur was here.  It felt obscenely intimate and he knew if he thought about it too hard, if he took a moment to actually consider what he was doing, he’d lose his nerve. 

The opening was a taut pucker that gave under the pad of his finger, swallowing up the tip in a liquid glide of lube.  Arthur twitched and shivered, hands clutching at Martin’s shoulders.  His legs sprawled wider and he hitched his hips up.  “Yes, yes, like that, oh,” he blurted out.  “More, bit more, just push in slowly.”

“Okay,” Martin said, tongue caught between his teeth as he concentrated on the slow, silken push.  Arthur was even hotter on the inside, and he couldn’t help but think of how it would feel around his cock.  He closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing where he was pinned against the side of Arthur’s hip, trying to relieve a little of the pressure.

He sank to the first knuckle, then met resistance.  “All right?  I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Doesn’t hurt,” Arthur said.  He made a low, desperate whine and abruptly tucked both hands under the small of his back.  “Oh but hurry, I need to, please…”

Martin pressed a little harder.  He watched Arthur’s face, cataloguing the little flickers of surprise and pleasure that washed across it.  Arthur was breathing hard, hectic patches of red standing out high on his cheeks and sweat beaded on his forehead.  In the slanting late afternoon sunlight he looked sharply outlined and real, like vivid splashes of colour done in oil paints.

When he was all the way in, he wriggled his finger experimentally.  Arthur shuddered.  Martin could see his toes curl.  “Unnnh yeah like that,” Arthur said.  “You, mmm, you need to curl your finger.  Feel for the right spot.  I’ll show you.”  He took Martin’s other hand and moved the fingers, curling one inward toward the palm with a slight curve.  Then he turned the hand, rubbing the pad of his finger over Martin's palm in tiny circles.  “Like that.  Curl in, and rub circles.  You’ll know when you’ve got it.”

Martin moved carefully.  Arthur felt impossibly tight around him, hot and slick and smooth.  He had his finger actually _inside_ another person—it was a first, another first to share with Arthur.  He was still marveling over this when Arthur cried out and pressed himself down against Martin’s hand.

“There, there, yes again yes,” Arthur mumbled in a rapid stream of words.  “Oh oh oh please you had it, you’re there oh…”

Martin could feel it, a slightly firmer surface amid all the softness.  It was small, easy to miss, but if he crooked his finger just so Arthur gasped.  Martin rubbed as he’d been told, little circles with the pad of his finger.  He watched Arthur’s eyelids flutter and felt him shake.

He could see pre-come leaking out, leaving a glistening patch on Arthur’s belly.  He looked impossibly hard; Martin could feel a sympathetic ache coil in his own belly.  Arthur had shoved his hands under his back again to keep from touching himself and he was quivering, muscles all drawn tight.  Martin couldn’t resist giving him a stroke with his left hand.

Arthur lurched into the touch, moaning in relief, and Martin could feel him flutter and tighten on the inside.  He lost the right spot when Arthur thrust up, but found it again, pressing a bit harder this time.  With his other hand, he rubbed echoing circles over the foreskin and across the tip, both still slippery with lube.  Arthur made broken sounds, some of which might have been words.

“You’re beautiful,” Martin told him, half-sure Arthur wouldn’t follow a word he was saying.  That made it much easier to say them.  “You’re kind, and good to me—good to _everyone_ , even the ones who don’t deserve it.  I don’t deserve you, but I want you.  And I’m not letting you go.  Not ever.”

Arthur opened his eyes and looked straight at him.  Martin froze; his hand tightened reflexively and Arthur thrashed.  He pushed up into Martin’s hand and then back against the other one, caught between those two points.  Martin could feel him start to come from the inside; everything contracted around his finger in waves.  Then under his other hand in a throbbing rush, spattering up Arthur’s chest and belly.  Martin stroked him through it, rubbing those circles inside until Arthur’s sounds of pleasure faded to exhausted little murmurs.

He took his hands away (Arthur twitched and made a vaguely complaining mumble) and wiped excess lube on the edge of the sheet.  Then he rolled them both, drawing Arthur in and tucking him against his chest.  Arthur wrapped around him.  He was trembling, still breathing hard, and his hands clutched convulsively against Martin’s back.

“Are you all right?” Martin asked.

Arthur nodded; Martin could hear him swallow.  “Martin,” he said quietly.  “I think you know this already, but I love you.”

Martin went still.  He pressed his face into the hollow of Arthur’s neck.

“Shh,” Arthur said.  He stroked a long, firm line down Martin’s back.  “You don’t have to say anything.  I just wanted you to know.  You deserve to hear it.”  He leaned back, lifting Martin’s jaw with one hand and giving him a fierce look.  “You _do_ deserve it.  All of it.  Understand?”

Martin just stared at him.  His throat ached and there were a hundred responses all clamoring for space in his chest, creating an unbearable pressure.  He closed his eyes and leaned in, and Arthur pressed a soft kiss to the centre of his forehead. 

“All right,” Arthur said.  “Let me touch you now.  I’m going to look at you in the sunshine.  I’m going to kiss every bit of you.  I’m going to see how close I can get you just by licking you, and I’m going to make you feel so good.  And then we’re going to lie here close, and listen to the ocean, and go to sleep happy.”

Martin nodded.  “Yes,” he managed, voice coming out thin and hoarse.  “I’d like that.”

Arthur kissed him again, meeting his eyes.  Martin looked back at him, hoping his expression conveyed what he couldn’t say in words.  Not yet.


	6. Full Circle

“Hi, Skip!” Arthur said, grinning at him.  It was a cold, drizzly late afternoon in Fitton, the tail end of February closing with a stretch of grey skies and sharp, icy wind.  Arthur was dressed for it, wearing his long coat again, pink-cheeked from the cold and hair sticking to his forehead in damp spikes. 

Martin squinted out at him.  He stood in the doorway to his shared house, leaning against the frame and bracing his weight against the doorknob.  “Arthur?”

“Yep!”  Arthur took a step forward.  “Can I come in?”

“Right, yes, of course,” Martin said, shuffling out of the way.  “Sorry, did we have plans?”

“Nope,” Arthur replied.  “Just wanted to see you.  If you’re busy I can find something else to do.”

“I’m not busy,” Martin said quickly. 

“Oh good.  See, Mum wanted me out of the house for a bit, and I thought I’d see a movie, only there weren’t any that I wanted to see.  And then I thought I’d go to the park, but it’s awfully cold and rainy out.  And I didn’t want to bother you, but I wasn’t sure where else I could go.”

“You’re not bothering me,” Martin assured him.  “You’re always welcome.”  He stepped close, pushing the coat off Arthur’s shoulders.  He was dripping, his boots leaving little puddles with every step, his shirt collar soaked underneath the coat.  “You must’ve been out there for a while.”

“Walked around a bit.”  Arthur shivered and folded his arms.  “Oh, I’m making a mess, I’m sorry.  I’ll clean that up, and then do you mind if I make us some tea?  Only I think it’ll warm me up a bit, and it is rather chilly in here, isn’t it?  Or maybe that’s just me.  But usually if you’ve been outside in the cold and you come in where it’s warm, then it feels warm, but—”  And here he stopped, the line of cheerful chatter pausing as he tilted his head to one side and considered Martin.  “Are you all right?”

Martin nodded.  “Yes, fine.”

Arthur just kept looking at him.  He strode forward, ignoring the wet flap of his coat around him.  There was something intent and deliberate in the steps; it made Martin think of some large feline predator, hungry and focused.  Arthur lifted his chin with one hand, fingertips cold against Martin’s skin.  “Tell me the truth, please.”

“I’m really,” Martin began, and then sighed.  “I’ll _be_ fine.  I will, honestly.  I just had a long moving job this morning and I’m a bit sore.”

Arthur gave a sympathetic wince.  “Who would move in this nasty weather?”

“Someone whose lease was up at the end of the month and had no other choice,” Martin replied.  “Believe me, I heard all about it.  The owner is selling the place out from under them, won’t let them stay any longer, it’s so unfair, they’re hardworking and clean and were only late on the rent a _few_ times and on and on…”  He sighed and shook his head.  “For ‘hardworking’ folks they sure didn’t lift a finger to help with the move.”

“Ah,” Arthur said.  He glanced around.  “And the students are all out?”

“Mid-year projects are due this week,” Martin said.  “They’re doing last minute work.  They’ve been up at all hours lately, studying and preparing.”

“Then I bet they’ve got tea in the kitchen,” Arthur said, scrubbing his hands together.  “Come on, I’ll make us both a cup.”  He curled one hand in the crook of Martin’s elbow and tugged him toward the kitchen.

“I try not to use their things,” Martin hedged, although a hot cup of tea did sound like just the thing on a cold, rainy day.

“Well, have they kept you up with their studying and going in and out at all hours?”

Martin shrugged.  “Yes, a bit.”

“And they’ve left the house a mess and you’ve cleaned up after them?”

“How did you know?”

Arthur smiled at him.  “Because it’s not messy and I’ve seen you do the same thing for me and Mum and Douglas.  You just clean up after people.  You don’t like things to be messy.”

“Well.”  Martin stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged.  “Simon used to say I was like a neurotic Mary Poppins.”

Arthur giggled as he slipped out of his coat and slung it over the back of a chair.  “Then you are entitled to a cup of their tea,” he said.  “Fair’s fair.”

He nudged Martin into a chair and bustled around the kitchen.  Martin couldn’t help but think of the last time Arthur had been there, making him tea.  That had been the first time they’d been together, after Venice.  Not so long ago, actually, but it felt long.  He’d been very nervous that day, he remembered.  He watched Arthur pour water and open teabags; Arthur had a sunny little smile on his face and he hummed something absently off-key.  Martin couldn’t imagine now what he’d been nervous about.

Arthur switched the kettle on and then came around to stand behind Martin.  He started a slow rubbing at Martin’s shoulders, thumbs digging into the tight muscles.  Martin groaned and leaned back against him.  His head lolled against Arthur’s stomach and his eyes fluttered shut.  “Oh, that’s nice,” he mumbled.  “I keep forgetting how good you are with your hands.”

“I should remind you more often,” Arthur said softly, right in his ear. 

Martin grinned.  “Clearly.”

Arthur chuckled and kept going.  He was persistent and methodical, rubbing from the nape of Martin’s neck out to the curve of his shoulders, and then down to press under his shoulder blades.  Martin sagged forward and let out a long breath.  After mornings like that one, hauling heavy and awkwardly shaped pieces of furniture out to his van in the freezing rain, he often felt creaky and strung tight, like a painful tangle of rusted stakes and twine.  Every movement tugged or pulled at some abused muscle and reminded him he couldn’t keep doing this job forever.

The kettle clicked off with a hiss and Arthur drew away, pressing a final kiss to the top of Martin’s head.  He made quick work of the tea and soon they both had steaming cups sitting in front of them on the table.  Arthur scooted his chair closer so their shoulders could brush together companionably.  He took a deep breath, drawing the warm, tea-scented air in, and sighed.  “That’s better.”

“Mmm,” Martin agreed.  He leaned over, letting his cheek rest against Arthur’s shoulder.  A sense of calm had already wrapped around him, giving him an odd feeling of floating.  They were insulated here, tucked away in the small, quiet kitchen, safe in this pocket of warmth and light apart from the cold grey world outside.  The house, which had seemed echoingly empty before, now felt cozy. 

Arthur stroked his hair absently.  He sipped his tea, apparently content to sit without speaking.  It was a comfortable silence. 

Martin managed about half his tea before losing interest.  He let it grow cold as he pressed against Arthur’s side, half asleep.  Some scattered idea about warming him up made Martin slip an arm around his waist and press a kiss to the side of his throat.  Arthur made a soft sound and kissed Martin’s temple in return.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Arthur said.

Martin nodded.  He gave Arthur a dazed blink and a sleepy smile.

Arthur led them, hand linked with Martin’s, guiding him up the stairs into his flat and then across to his battered futon.  He pushed Martin down on it and started undoing his buttons.  Martin let him, head turned to one side, eyes closed.  The rain drummed against the roof over their heads.  The next time Martin opened his eyes, Arthur was rolling him over onto his belly.  His shirt was off and he was barefoot, but he still wore the loose sleep pants he’d put on after a shower earlier.

“This is better with some oil,” Arthur said, “but we’ll make do.”  Then he ran his hands in a long sweep down Martin’s back.  He rolled his knuckles against the sore muscles, but kept the pressure light.  Martin wasn’t tense; he’d already relaxed earlier, falling into that buoyant quiet as he’d sat beside Arthur in the kitchen.  The soft strokes against his skin felt invigorating now, like a good stretch after a long flight.

Martin hummed in pleasure and tilted his head, exposing his neck.  Arthur took the invitation; he felt a warm puff of breath against his nape, and then a sprinkle of kisses.  It was lazy, a banked fire, warm and glowing with the potential to flare up if properly stirred.  Arthur added a faint scrape with his teeth, then licked a line down the centre of his back, and Martin shivered. 

Arthur kept at him, more petting than massage now, carding through his hair and then trailing down his back in meandering lines.  He pressed kisses to each of Martin’s shoulder blades, breathing in deeply.  “You smell delicious,” Arthur said.

Martin smiled.  “Do I?”

“Mmm.”  Arthur nibbled a little at the curve where his shoulder met his neck.  “Good enough to eat.”

A sweet curl of desire sprung to life low in Martin’s belly.  “Will you, then?”

Arthur laughed softly.  “Oh, lots of times.  But today there’s something else I want to try.”

“What is it?”

Arthur rolled off him, pulling Martin along until they faced each other, legs tangled together.  “Just like this,” he said.  “I want to see you.  I want to watch your face as we touch, and see how good it makes you feel.  I’m going to put my hand on your chest and feel your heart racing, and I’m going to kiss you when you come and feel you lose your breath.”

Martin swallowed hard and took a careful breath.  He ducked forward, his face hidden against Arthur’s shoulder.  “I can’t get over the way you just _say_ things like that, straight out.”

“Hey, come here,” Arthur said.  He steered Martin’s face up until their eyes met.  “Don’t hide.  There’s nothing to hide from.”

“Nothing for you,” Martin countered.  “You’re not afraid of being so… so open.  Exposed.”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

Martin gave him a surprised blink.  “What?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Arthur’s mouth.  “Do you know how long I’ve wanted you?”

“I… no?”

He thought for a moment.  “Do you remember our trip to Boston?”

Martin wrinkled his nose.  “Vividly.”

“Right, well, you remember that passenger who died?  Mr. Lehman?”

“I’m hardly going to forget.”

Arthur nodded.  “Well, I remember too.  I was the one who actually, you know… made him… I mean, I felt bad about it.  But not that bad.  Partly because I didn’t mean to, and if he was in such poor health that one fire extinguisher could give him a heart attack then he probably didn’t have very long anyway, but mostly because I saw the way he talked to you.  I saw how he made you feel, and how you tried so hard not to cry.  I didn’t care that he was rude to me, but when he said all those awful things to you and you got so… so _sad_ I couldn’t stand it.  I think that was when I first realised.”

“Arthur…”

“I’m not saying I’m glad he died, or anything,” Arthur added hastily.  “I wouldn’t want _any_ of our passengers to die, no matter how shouty they are or how many times they throw things at me.  But if one of them had to, he’s the one I would have picked.  Just because he hurt you.”

“You… that’s, um… sweet?  And a tad disturbing.”

Arthur nodded thoughtfully.  “I know.  It bothered me, too.  I don’t usually get angry with people, you know.  Only sometimes, and only if they hurt someone I love.  Before then, I knew I _liked_ you; that was obvious right away, but I like most people.  After Boston, I knew it was more.  That was two years ago and I never said anything until you asked me for help in Venice.  _You_ asked _me,_ remember?  You were the one who had the courage to say something.  I probably would have stayed quiet forever.  So don’t think for one second that I don’t get scared.”

“Oh,” Martin murmured.  He stroked his thumb over Arthur’s cheek.  Arthur closed his eyes, leaning into the touch.  Then he turned, pulling Martin’s hand to his mouth and kissing the palm.  He sucked on the tip of each finger, curling his tongue around the sensitive pads, and then he opened his eyes, catching Martin in a heated gaze. 

Arthur put his hand in Martin’s hair and gave a gentle tug, steering Martin’s head back.  He kissed the exposed stretch of his neck in a long, slow line.  Then he took Martin’s hand, put it in his own hair, and tilted his head.  Martin took the hint, kissing Arthur the same way.  He found that tender spot just below his ear and licked there, relishing the way Arthur squirmed against him.  It was hypnotic and deliberate; he found himself breathing in time with Arthur without meaning to.

He wasn’t sure when Arthur shrugged out of his shirt or got their trousers off.  He only noticed that there was a lovely spread of warm skin against his chest and in his arms, and that he could rub against Arthur with only the thin cotton of their pants in the way.  There was a brief wash of cooler air as Arthur pulled way to rummage through his rickety set of bedside drawers, and then he came back with a bottle of lotion. 

“How did you know I had that?” Martin asked, ducking his head.

“Don’t be silly,” Arthur replied.  “Everyone’s got something like this.”  He squeezed Martin close and planted a smacking kiss on his shoulder, giggling.  “But I love that you still blushed about it.  That’s really…”

“Don’t you call me cute,” Martin cut in.

Arthur put on an innocent face.  “You really, really are, though.  But okay, I won’t say it.”

Martin pushed at his chest, faux-grumpily.  “If anyone is cute, clearly it’s you,” he said.  “With your perpetual cheerfulness and your hugs and your big brown puppy dog eyes.”

“Aw, thanks Skip!”  Arthur grinned at him, and then slid a hand down his back, underneath his pants, and cupped his arse. 

There was a brief, surreal moment of dissonance—here was Arthur; happy, bouncy Arthur who called him Skip, and he was curled up in Martin’s bed, wrapped around him, almost naked and with a hand down his pants.  But then Arthur gave him one of those slow smiles, drawing him in, and his eyes were half-lidded and dark, his hand sure against Martin’s skin, and that was Arthur too.  Arthur-in-charge, who seemed to be all about gentleness and care and making Martin feel amazing.  They were just different parts of the same person and, Martin realised, must have always been there.  He just hadn’t seen this side until recently.

So it was easy to look at Arthur’s cheerful face and kiss him, and it was easy to slide his hand down Arthur’s belly and stroke him through his pants and watch him push into the pressure with a low moan. 

Arthur made quick work of the pants, kicking them off the end of the bed.  Then he squeezed a generous dollop of lotion onto his hand, rubbed them together, and reached down to get a hand around each of them.  Martin caught his breath at the sudden slippery slide.  He wriggled closer and mouthed at the smooth curve of Arthur’s shoulder, licking the faint taste of salt off his skin.

“Look at me,” Arthur said.  Martin’s head snapped up.  Arthur was inches away, face clouded with pleasure as he stroked them both.  Martin found he could actually watch each touch as it rippled over Arthur’s expression.  The way his lips parted and he panted for breath, the flush that crept up his cheeks, the little flicks and movements of his eyes, dark and dilated with arousal.  He wondered what Arthur could see on his face; how much was he giving away?  There was an impulse then to smooth his features and make himself blank—to hide—but Martin pushed it away.  Arthur had said it right.  There was nothing to hide from.

Martin brought his hand down, tangling it with Arthur’s for a moment, gathering up the lotion.  Then he curled it around Arthur’s cock and gave him a long, slow stroke.  He watched the way Arthur licked his lips and the hazy dip to his eyelids.  He rubbed with his thumb, knowing just what Arthur liked, and felt a rich swell of smug pleasure at the way he whimpered and thrust forward. 

Then Arthur made his hand tight and gave a little twist over the head with each stroke.  Martin bit his lip; his eyes fluttered closed for a moment but he opened them again.  He wanted to watch Arthur—and he wanted Arthur to see. 

He lost the awareness of the room around them and the steady rush of the rain on the roof.  They were at sea, the bed a tiny raft in the wide ocean, and none of it mattered.  There was only Arthur, right in front of him, watching him and taking him in.  It could not be shrugged off as a simple mutual hand-job; not this.  Not when he breathed in time with Arthur and held him close and watched every wave of sensation wash across his face. 

When Arthur had first told him they were taking steps, he’d assumed it was about the physical.  They would move from act to the next, each one more intimate, more… more _complete._ Culminating, perhaps, in actual penetration, which Martin had always assumed was the Main Event, as it were.  But it wasn’t about that.  Increased intimacy, yes, very much so, and the sex was certainly a part of that; just not the only part.

Martin leaned forward to kiss him.  He felt the warm press of lips, the soft way Arthur opened at his touch and licked along the edge of his mouth, but he also felt the delicate brush of Arthur’s eyelashes against his cheek and the thrum of his heart where their chests touched.  When he pulled back, he didn’t know at all what showed on his face, but Arthur seemed to understand. 

Arthur smiled.  “You see?”

Martin gave a small nod.  “I think I do.” 

“We’ve got lots of time,” Arthur said.  “One day, you’ll be sure.  I’m not going anywhere.”

Martin kissed him again and pressed close; there was that temptation again, to tuck his face against Arthur’s shoulder and focus on the physical sensations and let himself stop thinking.  Letting down the barriers in his head was far more frightening than simply allowing Arthur to touch his body.

“Shh,” Arthur said, gentling the kiss.  “Lots of time,” he repeated.  “Watch me.  Let me watch you.”

Direct orders made it easier.  Martin watched him, caught up in the ripples of feeling.  He looked for what made him shiver and what made him groan, low in his throat.  He saw the way Arthur’s mouth twitched into little smiles, and then opened in a soft gasp, the lips pink and faintly swollen with kisses.  He stared at Arthur, completely unguarded in his pleasure, drunk on it. 

Then Arthur sped up, his breath catching into those eager broken sounds that meant he was close.  Martin rocked his hips and they pressed together.  The hot, velvety skin of Arthur’s cock was sinfully good against his own, rubbing with those frantic, shuddery little thrusts he used when he was almost over the edge. 

“Oh, mmm, oh that’s good,” Arthur mumbled.  “You’re close too, I can see it.”

“Unh-huh,” Martin agreed.  It wasn’t just the snug, slippery stroke of Arthur’s hand, or the rub of his sleek skin; it was the way he came undone, the sounds he made, the quivering line of his body pressed close.  “Please, bit more, just like that.”

He thought Arthur came first, his mouth falling open and his eyes growing hazy as he cried out.  But then they were kissing, Arthur licking into his mouth and swallowing his moans as he came between them.  Martin pushed up into their joined hands, feeling the slick liquid heat and the sweet rush of sensation racing over his skin and coiling in his belly.

Arthur’s hand grew gentle, drawing more shivery echoes out of him until he was wrung out and pliant, sprawled in his arms.  He watched Martin’s face throughout, and Martin let him.  He gave Arthur a dazed smile and slipped an arm around his waist.  They curled together, foreheads touching, and he finally closed his eyes and let out a long, contented sigh.

“You’re beautiful,” Arthur whispered.  “You are all the time, but especially when you come.”

Martin shifted, brushing a kiss idly over the corner of Arthur’s mouth.  He’d been called sexy before—not often, but once or twice.  Arthur was the first one to use _beautiful._ It was a little odd as normally you’d think of a woman as beautiful, wouldn’t you?  It wasn’t a word for men.  When Arthur said it, though, Martin got the sense he wasn’t only talking about appearance.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.  “If you were anyone else, I’d think you were teasing.  But you wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t,” Arthur agreed. 

There was quiet.  Martin listened to the rain and the sound of Arthur’s breathing.  He trailed his fingertips up and down Arthur’s back, then into the soft strands of his hair.  “Arthur, you know I… you know, right?”

“I know.”  Arthur kissed his cheek, and then his shoulder, drawing him into a hug.

“Someday…”

“Lots of time,” Arthur said.  “I told you, I’m keeping you.”

“I want you to,” Martin replied.  “I want you to stay.  You will, won’t you?”

“I’ll stay,” Arthur promised.  He leaned back, meeting Martin’s eyes.  “Will you stay, too?”

Martin nodded.  His hands went tight on Arthur’s shoulders.  “I’m glad it was you.  For a long time I felt like I’d missed out; like I’d wasted years being alone so long.  But I’m glad it was you.”

Arthur smiled.  “Worth waiting for?”

“Definitely.”

Arthur kissed him on the forehead and pulled him close, then tugged the blanket over them.  “Have a rest,” he said.  “Rainy afternoons are perfect for naps.  I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Martin closed his eyes, wriggling until he was comfortable.  He sank into sleep easily, between one breath and the next.  Arthur would be there.  He promised.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Skipthur Drabbles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2670191) by [madnina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madnina/pseuds/madnina)




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